


Fury

by MagdaTheMagpie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Case Fic, Crime Scenes, Friends to Lovers, Johnstrade, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), Pining, Polyamory, Serial Killers, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-01-18 18:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 74,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12394014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagdaTheMagpie/pseuds/MagdaTheMagpie
Summary: John is drowning his grief over Sherlock's suicide in a bottle and Greg has had enough. He gives him an ultimatum: sober up and solve a case with him, or watch him go and never come back.The choise is easy, the case not so much...





	1. Drowning in Misery

 

Pain radiated through his skull when John woke up from his drunken haze. The sound of heavy, rapid footfalls coming up the stairs to his flat were no doubt what had alerted him, but now that he knew, he didn't give a damn and just wished he could fall back to sleep. He knew who those steps belonged to by a simple process of elimination: it wasn't Mrs Hudson (no heels, too fast) and there was only one other person who bothered to come around to visit anymore.

He also knew _why_ he had a visitor.

“Not this again,” John muttered from the couch which had become his bed of late.

He covered his eyes with a cushion, knowing his unwanted guest would yank the curtains open the first chance he got. He might even be cruel enough to throw the windows open to let in the dubiously fresh air of London. John didn’t bother to get up to greet his old friend, even though he knew that if he had ran all the way up after discreetly letting himself in to bypass Mrs Hudson, that could only mean he was worried about what state he’d find him in. Not dead, as it turned out, and not drunk either, well, not too much, but terribly hung-over and certainly not in the mood to entertain.

John could easily guess who had given Greg a spare key to sneak about, and he cursed Mycroft under his breath for his meddling. John couldn't even muster the strength to rise from his horizontal slouch. He might just fall over again. It wasn’t worth the bother. So he merely glared at Greg over the cushion, before deciding even that was too much work, not to mention too painful for his bloodshot eyes. He shut them tight again and slurred a snide remark he hoped would suffice to send Greg on his way and leave him alone.

“No, Greg, I still haven't offed myself, as you can see, so you can bugger right off already.”

His voice was gruff, but it had the benefit of highlighting how very annoyed he was.

“Aww, come on, John. Don't be like that,” Greg chided, and John opened one baleful eye just in time to see him flash a bright smile. “And you've got to admit I had reasons to be suspicious last time around. You hadn't come out for a whole week.”

“You mean when bloody Mycroft couldn't spot me on his damn CCTVs and sent you in as his sniffer dog?”

“Can't blame us for being worried, mate. And Mrs Hudson was visiting her sister, so…” Greg huffed, sounding troubled now, so John decided he would make the effort to open both eyes and pretend to listen. Maybe it would make him go away faster.

“You haven't exactly been yourself since... That day,” Greg added, looking pointedly at the half-empty whisky bottle on the floor that John was hypnotically rolling back and forth with the tip of his fingers, the slosh of the liquid inside calling to him like a siren’s song. John let it roll under the couch, out of view, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I'm perfectly fine,” he said, fighting every little telltale sign that he was actually sporting a massive hangover and felt like dying the longer he had to keep on with this pointless conversation, which was, as far as he could tell, only meant to irritate him.

“Perfectly fine?” Greg mocked as he perched himself on the couch’s armrest at his feet, his deep voice grating on John’s nerves and tender brain. “You're still in your pajamas for crying out loud!”

“Piss off. It’s early.”

“It’s past noon.”

“It’s Sunday. Leave me alone.”

“Its Tuesday, John. Tuesday!”

“Alright, alright,” John growled, covering his ears in self-defense. “No need to be so loud.”

“I think it’s about bloody time someone got loud with you, John. You’re wallowing about in the middle of a weekday in your pajamas, half drunk, and it looks like you've neither eaten nor washed for days. And you certainly haven’t shaved."

"Yeah? Well, fuck you. I'm not drunk, I'm sobering up, and at lightning speed thanks to your nagging. And just be glad I’m wearing any clothes at all. Now you can run back to Mycroft like a good boy and tell him to just piss off already. He's not my keeper and he's certainly not my brother!"

Greg's face pinched with displeasure. He jumped back on his feet, inexplicably took off his vest, then rolled up his sleeves and squared his shoulders.

"Alright, that does it," he announced to no one in particular, then hurled John out of the couch with surprising ease, ignoring his protests and curses while he was manhandled into the nearby bathroom and under the showerhead. Without warning, Greg turned the taps full on, apparently not caring that the first spray was freezing cold.

“Augh! Greg! No! Don’t-” John spluttered, spitting out water and flailing against Greg’s arms while his so-called friend attempted to drown him,  enjoying himself way too much. “Stop it! Damn it! Stop it, Greg!”

Greg did not relent though, but John did after a while and just fell in a heap at the bottom of the shower with the spray hitting the top of his head and back. It didn’t feel half bad after a while. The stiff muscles in his body relaxed now that the shock of cold water had worn off, replaced by a steady, steamy hot stream that seemed to wash down the drain some of his self-loathing along with the grime. It would be even nicer if his clothes didn’t stick uncomfortably to his skin and weigh him down.

“Better?” Greg asked and turned the taps off, before drying his arms with a threadbare towel.

John sighed, still feeling like he wanted to shout and cry and kick a puppy or something, but he nodded, because he _was_ feeling marginally better, all things considered. More human and less like something that had been scraped off the bottom of his shoes after a walk through the less savoury parts of London.

“Good. Now… listen carefully, John. I’ll make you the same offer I made Sherlock a long time ago and I'll only make it once: I’ll give you twenty minutes to make yourself presentable while I go fix myself some coffee. If you’re not ready by then, I’ll leave you be and won’t bother you ever again.”

John glowered at the man for both using Sherlock’s memory and for the emotional blackmail. Do as I say or the only friend you have left in the world will abandon you? Seriously? He had wanted to be left alone lately, that was true enough, but he knew he'd always have Mrs Hudson and Greg there, waiting for him if he wanted to reach out. To have that possibility taken away… John shuddered, and pushed away images of losing someone else again.

“And if I am ready by then?” John asked reluctantly while he used the tiled wall to help himself up.

“An interesting case just came up. A weird one from what I’ve heard. You’ll like it. You might even be able to help. God knows you’ve studied Sherlock’s methods long enough.”

John blinked. A case? He hadn’t been on a case, or thought he’d ever be again, since Sherlock’s disappearance. Did he miss it? Sure… but he missed Sherlock more. Still, it could be a step in the right direction, and it had to be better than drinking himself into an early grave, although he did like forgetting…. But maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to get his mind off things, replace some of the guilt and grief that crushed him day after day. But more than anything, he couldn't resist the promise of a case: the mystery and the unravelling and the chase… What did he have to lose anyway?

“Okay,” John said in a flat tone

He started peeling off his sodden clothes while Greg smiled smugly and left him to it. In short order, John washed, shampooed, brushed, shaved and toweled until the man staring back at him from the mirror looked more familiar than it had in awhile. His eyes were still a bit bloodshot and sunken, and he desperately needed a haircut. Had he really not cut his hair since _that day?_ It had to be true, they were certainly long enough for that. He snorted at his reflection. He’d never grown out his hair before. Ever. Not even as a teenager in a futile attempt at rebellion against his parents or society, as most of his friends had, but John had always imagined that if he did, his hair would be straight and fall flat around him, like Harry’s did, but it turned out his hair was... fluffy, and flopped around him like light featherdown, defying all gravity. He looked like a washed out chick, he decided - of the baby chicken variety, not the lady sort of chick. John turned around to look in the shower and glared at the shampoo bottle he had grabbed at random, wondering what they put in that stuff to make him look so ridiculous. Well, nothing to be done about it now. If he tried hacking his hair off himself, he knew he would only make it worse. Not to mention he didn’t have much time left if he didn’t want Greg to make good on his threat and leave him without a word, never to return.

And now, John realized he had no clothes to change into. Not even a dressing gown. Great. Thanks a lot, Greg. Wrapping a towel around his waist, John stomped out of the bathroom and all the way up to his bedroom, ignoring his visitor who was sipping from his steaming mug in John’s armchair. If he didn’t want to see half naked men parading in front of him first thing in the morning, he shouldn’t have tried to drown him fully clothed, and so, only had himself to blame for it.

A few minutes later, neatly dressed, buttoned up and jumpered down, John felt even better, more like his old self. Maybe he could make a fresh start out of this... But even as he thought it, he knew it wouldn’t be that easy. The temptation of just forgetting everything, drowning his guilt, anger, loneliness and despair in a bottle was still there, lurking behind his momentary boost in confidence, just waiting for the darker hours to pull him down again. He understood Harry a whole lot better now. The struggle, the ups and downs...

But no…  He had a stronger will than Harry. He’d always had. He could do this. It was time to stop wallowing in his own pitiful misery and become John Watson again.

  



	2. Tears of Blood

Greg took a peek at John in the passenger seat on their way to the crime scene, worried that he had pushed too hard, asked too much, too soon. But he hadn’t had a choice. He hated seeing the man everyone liked and respected so much become an empty shell trying to drink himself into an early grave. And, given his family history, Greg thought an intervention was needed sooner, rather than later.

His passenger was sullen and silent, but at least he’d come, and maybe if he managed to keep his mind focused on something other than the bottle or Sherlock, for long enough, he’d manage to get over his addiction and turn a new page. It had worked for Sherlock, and he’d been difficult to deal with. Really difficult. Greg had wanted to slap some sense into him more than once at the time, had almost given up on the young genius whenever he relapsed, but it had been worth it, in the end, and he knew John was worth the effort too. He was certainly more malleable, both physically and emotionally, but John's traumas ran deeper than simple boredom and teenage rebellion. Although… Greg had always suspected there had been something that had happened to Sherlock in his younger years, and that his “I’m bored” actually meant “I’m thinking about it and I don’t want to think about it”, but if so, he had never confided in him. Greg wondered if Sherlock had finally found a confidant in John. Not that he’d ask, especially not now… but he did wonder, since they’d hit it off right from the start and been close ever since. Well, until Sherlock became a complete and utter idiot and thought jumping off a building was suddenly a brilliant idea. Stupid git. Such a waste...

When they arrived, Greg cut across the throng of curious neighbours, apprehensive witnesses, busy cops and crime scene techs, knowing John would follow in his wake the way he did in the good old days with Sherlock. Sally almost raised an objection when she spotted John, but he warned her off with a glare and a slight shake of the head

_ Don't. _

After that, everybody who had been staring more or less discreetly at them returned about their business. Greg didn’t think anyone would rat him out to his superior. Not again. Not after last time. His position was already precarious as it was. In fact, it was a wonder he had not already been sacked, although he did suspect the elder Holmes had a hand in that somehow.

Thankfully, the case was just as weird as promised. Sally rattled off the basic information she’d gathered: Mark Sommers, male, 39, unemployed, unmarried, no kids. Greg looked the corpse over: he was morbidly obese, balding and looked much older than his years. No apparent cause of death and anyone who had found him might have suspected a natural cause, heart failure being the most likely, given his general physical condition and age, if it hadn’t been for the two strips of blood that had been painted from the corner of his eyes down his cheeks. Not much else Greg could find out from the body. He’d have to wait for the legist report.

John looked over his shoulder and Greg glanced back at him.

“Want to give it a go?” he asked with what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

John shrugged, as if he couldn't care less, but crouched closer to the body, mindful of not disturbing or touching anything even though he was fully dressed in one of the protection suits. His eyes flicked all over the body in front of him. It was oddly reminiscent of Sherlock, although John did not go about it as fast, nor did he spout off deduction after deduction at him until his brain hurt. But he did move his fingers over the area around his neck. Greg grimaced at the rolls of fat resting there while John was carefully pushing two rolls apart.

“He’s been injected,” John finally said.

“Really?” Greg asked, crouching next to him. It would help if they had an idea of the manner of death this soon. They could make a first sweep of his apartment for the murder weapon.

“See? Right there?” John asked and lightly pushed down the man’s collar, where, clear as day, were two small punctures, red and angry around the edges. The skin around that zone looked blotchy and... ‘sick’ was the only word that popped into Greg's mind. “A bit unusual. Clearly needle marks, of the thicker variety, but why twice and spaced so close?”

“Maybe the victim moved before his attacker could inject the entire dose?” he offered.

John hummed, seeming unconvinced, but at least he wasn’t insulting him or his intelligence.

“Cut post-mortem to the palm. That’s where you killer dipped in his finger to trace the bloody lines down his face, whatever that means.”

“Looks like tears,” Sally cut in, hovering over them and the body. “Sort of,” she amended when they both looked up and around at her.

Greg tensed, wondering if John would lash out at Sally for being partly responsible for the whole Sherlock debacle. As far as he knew, they hadn’t come face to face since then.

“No, you’re right... it does,” John said pensively before manipulating the body’s hand. “Body is cold and stiff, dead 8 to 36 hours, but I’d say it must have happened sometime right after his dinner since he still has some curry stains at the corner of his mouth and the collar of his shirt,” John pointed to both spots. “That match the left-overs of the take-away box which has been knocked over from the coffee table there,” he pointed to the coffee table’s leg nearest to them. “I imagine the telly was on when he was found?”

Greg was looking at John, a bit gobsmacked, he knew, but he couldn’t help it.

“Sorry I can’t tell you why he’s wearing mismatched socks, or if he has a girlfriend who’s cheating on him,” John said, avoiding Sherlock’s name but they heard it all the same.

“No, that was great. It’s going to help a lot, actually. Sally can you find that take-out place to know at what time he was last delivered? It might help us narrow down the time of death. Greenberg!” Greg called and a young man in uniform appeared. “We’re looking for a syringe and-” he checked the cut on the victim’s hand, then looked at John.

“Small blade, serrated but dulled. Maybe an old steak knife?”

“What he said. Check all the kitchen cutlery, see if one is missing from a set, search his bin and the public bins around the complex too,” Greg ordered and Greenberg hopped to it like the enthusiastic rookie he was. Ah, to be that young again.

Greg got up, his knee joints cracking, and held out his hand to help John stand. “Anything else?” he asked him and received a small chuckle. Small, but real.

“I’m not a psychic, Greg,” John scolded amicably. “So what do you do, now? Poke around the poor sod’s stuff?”

“That’s right, you never used to hang around,” Greg mused. “But yeah, that’s about it. The SOCOs do most of the work here, combing through the place and putting everything under seal, but we do 'poke around' as you say. It usually helps us inspectors find out some kind of motive or a good list of suspects to start off the investigation while we wait for lab results. Come on, I’ll show you the best place to start.”

Greg proudly showed John the fridge. In all his years at Scotland Yard, the fridge had never failed him, one way or another: if it didn’t provide information on the outside, it usually did on the inside, and vice-versa.

“Clever,” John said, scanning what had been stuck to the door with colourful magnets: a prescription that he didn’t comment on, so probably not relevant to the case, a few items of what looked like the start of a shopping list, an appointment for the next day for a Dr Eric Brunner which Greg dutifully wrote in his notebook to check out, and three colourful post-its with women's names stuck around the bottom of the fridge with a fourth stuck near the top. Strange.

Greg yelled for whoever was taking photos of the crime scene to take one of the fridge.

“Ex-girlfriends?” John asked, “Or maybe he dates several all at once and uses the sticky notes to remember their names?”

Greg snorted.

“Doesn’t seem the type, really.”

Honestly, he’d be surprised if he even had the one girlfriend, let alone four. The man had been especially unattractive, didn't appear acquainted with the notion of hygiene, was getting on in years, had no job and probably no social life, and was rather messy despite the small size of his flat. He ate like a slob, too. Greg’s ex-wife had always berated him for eating on the fly and making a mess, but their victim was in a whole other category.

He opened the fridge: beer, cheddar that had turned moldy on one side, several take-away boxes with leftovers of varying edibility and a couple of sealed ready-made meals. What you’d expect to find in a bachelor’s fridge in sum.

Back to the exterior, then. Maybe the names on the fridge were women he harassed. That would make a good motive, and a good suspect list of four women: Cassie, Helen, Penny and Melissa. Women killing men were not unheard of, especially if the murder weapon was some kind of poison. It was the best way for women to subdue men: by robbing them of their physical advantage. Because Sommers might not have been fit, or muscular, but he certainly had enough sheer mass to compensate and overpower most anyone. 

By now, Sherlock would already know whodunit, how, why and what colour knickers they were wearing at the time. Greg wished he had more of his insight, but he’d have to do with the good old fashioned investigation. He closed the fridge and his eyes landed on John who was poking at the latch of the window above the kitchen sink. Greg hadn’t realized how nostalgic seeing John on a crime scene would make him feel, but as he had predicted, his friend was now entirely focused on the case at hand, his brow furrowed in concentration, wisps of his silver blond hair flopping about his forehead that he kept pushing away distractedly. It rather suited him, now that he thought about it. If only Greg could get him to eat more regularly, he’d soon look like his old self again.

“What?” John asked.

“What?” Greg repeated, snapping out of his thoughts.

“You’re staring.”

Greg cleared his throat guiltily.

“Found anything?” he deflected.

“Not sure… How did the killer get in the flat?”

“Through the door, or so we assume. The person who found the body is a neighbour. He noticed the door was open when he left for an appointment early this morning but thought nothing of it, until he returned a few hours later and it was still open. He only had to give the door a small push to see the body from the entrance and he called us.”

“But the murderer could have come in one way and left another?”

Greg nodded, looking more closely at the latch. It was one of those modern sliding windows, although it had seen better days. This complex wasn’t exactly new or luxurious. The up and down latch displayed a bright red dot. Locked. John smiled at Greg’s raised eyebrow, then pushed the latch up and down again. It gave no resistance and always displayed the red locked dot. It was busted.

“Oh. You think the killer came in through there?”

“Possible. Or it’s been broken for years. Who knows? It’s not like he had anything worth stealing, so maybe he didn’t care. But either his attacker came through the door and it was someone he knew or trusted to let him come close enough to jab a needle in his neck…”

“Twice,” Greg added, which didn’t seem all that likely.

“Or he came through that window and took our victim by surprise. It might explain the knocked over take-out box too.”

“Uhm, and why he still had dinner stains around his mouth. Legist report will be able to confirm that with his stomach contents. Ha! Not bad, John, not bad at all. I might just keep you around,” Greg quipped and called over another tech to check the area for fingerprints or footprints, but given this place was a pig sty, he wasn’t holding up much hope for anything conclusive.

He left the flat to check the other side of the window with John. It gave onto the walkway that led to each flat, easy access. Flashing a torch at the latch, it was obvious it had been busted recently by the scratch marks left by whatever tool had been used: shiny, thin coils of paint and metal still clinging to the window. Greg tried opening the window himself and it slid open easily and without a sound. He grinned at the technician on the other side and told him to work on the outside of the window as well when he was done.

After that, Greg went about questioning the neighbours, silently shadowed by John when he talked to them, but bouncing ideas off one another animatedly when they were out of earshot.

They didn't find out much more in the end: the man had been a loner, nobody had ever seen him have visitors and a couple of the people they were questioning outright laughed when they asked after girlfriends. Pas, he had always been described as quiet, discreet to the point of being unknown to some of the building's residents. All in all, nobody seemed particularly bothered by his death, which was rather sad, but not unusual. 

"You probably find this tedious and boring," Greg said apologetically.

"Not at all. It’s actually interesting to see how it’s normally done. It’s a whole lot less dramatic. Less running involved, too."

"So... boring," Greg resumed with a mock crossed expression that he dropped when an officer came to inform him the body was being taken away and that they would start wrapping things up.

"What's the next step?" John asked, looking sincerely interested.

"Now we go back to the Yard, check into all these people's pasts, see if there’s something they didn’t tell us." Greg announced, waving his notebook containing the names of the victim, his neighbours and witnesses.

 

ooo

 

“Hey, listen to this!” Greg said, waving John over to his computer. “Steve Tyler, a neighbour one floor down- you know the one who said 'Good riddance' and slammed the door in our faces? Turns out he lodged a complaint against Sommers for breaking and entering. Just found him in his flat one day after he came home with his family. Sommers claimed he’d just found the door open and come to check if everything was okay.”

“Tyler clearly didn’t believe his version of events,” John mused. “What happens now? Do you call him in? Do a good cop, bad cop kind of interrogation?”

“You watch too much telly, John. We’ll just swing around his place later on when we’re finished here. How’s your method working out?”

“It’s not,” John said with a grimace. “I don’t know how  _ he  _  managed it, but he got all sorts of information out of Facebook. I guess I’m just pants at it. There’s just this woman, Natalia Ports? I think she’s the single mom with the twins? She called one of her neighbours a creep in a post a couple of weeks back, but it could be anyone. Even that Tyler bloke, who knows? She has what? About thirty neighbours all told?”

“Worth the check,” Greg said, jotting it down. “It can always lead us to something else. How about that doctor Brunner? Did you check him up?”

“Yeah, he’s a dermatologist. From his prescription, it looks like Sommers had a chronic skin condition, some form of eczema from what I saw. It was probably just a routine visit. Not worth the bother. How about his next of kin? Found anything?”

“Only a brother. Lives in London, too. We could go there first?”

“Only if we catch a bite after. I’m starving,” John said emphatically.

Greg grinned. His plan to get John back on his feet was going splendidly.

 

ooo

 

“I’m sorry to say this, but you don’t look sad to hear about your brother’s death,” Greg commented after easing the news to him, an easy feat after his years of experience.

“That’s because I’m not. I haven’t talked to him in years and I had no intention to. Frankly, I’m glad the bastard’s dead. I just wish he’d suffered a bit more. I would have done it myself too, if I could have gotten away with it,” the man said with a vague shrug. “But I have my family to care for. I’m not going to prison because of that creep, however much I’ve wanted him to rot in hell.”

Greg and John shared a glance, first when the victim’s brother started spewing his hateful words, and then when he called him a creep, which echoed what John had dug out earlier from the neighbour’s facebook page.

“I think you need to explain, Mr Sommers. We’ve found nothing suspicious in your brother's past.”

“You wouldn’t,” the brother snorted angrily. “He got off, didn’t he? He made a bloody stink about it and got his name purged from the investigation, the records and all, so you wouldn’t find anything. But I know it was him, had to be.”

His voice cracked and Greg wondered what drama he had stepped into this time.

“I- I can’t… It’s still too painful,” Sommer’s brother got up and rummaged into the bottom drawer of a hulking dresser, pulling out a shoebox and offering it to Greg with trembling hands. “You’ll have to read about it yourself.”

After that, their host all but kicked them out of his house, and they made their way to a small diner that had tables large enough to accommodate what they knew would be a vast spreading out of the shoe box’s contents around their meal.

Newspaper clippings, photos, letters...It all served to paint a very disturbing picture of their murder victim: Mark Sommers.

“A murderer?” John said with disgust. “And not just a murderer, but a child molester who went after his own niece? I’m not sure I want to solve this case anymore. Except if you just want to find his killer to give him a medal or something.”

“He was cleared,” Greg pointed out.

“Because of a mix up in the evidence. That hardly proves he’s innocent.”

“It doesn’t prove he’s guilty either. The evidence against him was substantial at best, what without finding a body, and after that blunder, there was nowhere else to take the investigation.”

“You’re just playing devil’s advocate.”

“Guilty as charged. I’m just saying we can’t make assumptions.”

“But what if his killer did?”

“Uhm, good point. I don’t think it’s his brother who killed him, though. He seemed genuinely surprised by the news, even if he wasn't sorry about it. But we’ll check his alibi, just to be thorough.”

“Would you really arrest him? After what happened to his daughter?” John asked holding up the picture of a pretty little girl with chestnut pigtails and a wide dimpled smile.

Greg pushed John’s hand down. It was churning his stomach just to look at the girl, knowing what must have happened to her.

“Murder is murder. That’s my job,” Greg replied cooly. 

He wouldn’t enjoy arresting someone who had gotten rid of a scumbag such as Mark Sommers, if he was indeed guilty, but the law was the law. If Greg started on the slippery path of deciding who deserved to be given a free pass or not, it would soon devolve into chaos. He wasn’t God...or, in this case, a judge. “Anyway, we don’t even think it’s his brother who killed him, and for all we know, he was killed for something entirely different that has nothing to do with Melissa’s disappearance.”

“Melissa…” John repeated.

“Yes, that’s the niece’s name.”

“It was also one of the names on the fridge,” John said feeling sick. “The one that was alone, at the top.”

Greg made a retching sound.

“The sick fuck?” he let out, making several heads in the restaurant turn their way. “What were the other names? Oh God, I hope he didn’t get his hands on other kids. I hate it when there’s kids involved.”

 

ooo

 

They decided to abandon the rest of the dinner, neither feeling like eating anything after what they’d just discovered, and they returned to Scotland Yard with all the papers neatly stacked back into the shoe box. John now felt like he was carrying a teeny, tiny coffin against him.

“Penny, Cassie and Helen,” Sally announced depositing one of the crime scene pictures onto Greg’s desk, the one of the fridge's door. “Are you sure about this, Lestrade?”

“I hope I’m wrong. It might just be a coincidence.”

“It’s not all that common a name though,” Sally admitted and shifted uneasily before leaving again.

“I don’t think she approves of me being here,” John commented off-handedly.

“Yeah? Well, that’s too bad,” Greg said with a grin. “But if anyone asks, you just dropped by to say hello and know nothing about the case.”

“Sure,” John agreed with a shrug. 

He’d probably gotten used to it, following Sherlock around on his cases. Sherlock was a consultant, but John never had any official status, he just tagged along. Greg hoped he wasn’t dredging up too much of the past.

“So, these three other names...they’re stuck at the bottom of the fridge, contrary to Melissa who was at the top, so that’s a good sign, I suppose,” John added, putting an end to the awkward silence.

“Must be. Maybe he was going to kidnap another kid so those names would be his targets? Potential victims?”

“Christ. There’s no kid missing, is there?”

“Not that fit Melissa’s profile, and none in the neighbourhood, no,” Greg answered because he would know if there was, but he typed into the police database anyway. “And none with those names, not recently.”

John sighed in relief.

“We should still try finding out who they are," Greg added, looking over at the picture of the fridge in search of clues. "Maybe one of their parents got scared by him lurking around their kids and took matters in their own hands. That’s something I might do myself, laws be damned.”

John smiled and then his face lit up with dawning realization. Again, very Sherlock, very disturbing.

“Oh! The neighbour who called him a creep! She has two daughters! And the neighbour who found Sommers lurking in his flat, although I can’t recall if he had a daughter.”

“He’d kidnap a kid from his own building? Is he a fucking moron?”

“He killed his own niece and got away with it! Of course he would!”

And they were off again, back to the crime scene.

 

ooo

 

Natalia Ports spoke with a heavy Russian accent but they managed to get the information they needed. First, that her twin daughters were called Penelope and Cassandra, Penny and Cassie for short. Second, she admitted the neighbour she had called a creep was, in fact, Mark Sommers, because he kept petting her girls’ hair when they crossed paths on the stairs, even after she’d told him to stop and threatened to go report him to the police. And finally, she had an alibi for the night he was killed, and there was no father around who might have gone in a murderous rage to protect them.

The other neighbour, Steve Tyler, confirmed what he’d said from the police report they’d found. He hadn’t said anything earlier because he was afraid they’d suspect him, but once he was able to give them an alibi for the estimated time of death, he was more than happy to chat. He hadn’t noticed any strange behaviour on his part before, but he had found him in his daughter’s room at the time of the break in, and after that he watched him like a hawk, making sure he never even had the chance to set eyes on his little princess again. He thought he’d been paranoid at the time, and he might have been, but it turned out his daughter’s name was Helen.

“I think I might just kiss the murderer when we find him,” John announced when they left. “Do you realize he might have saved one of those little girl’s life?”

“Yeah, I know,” Greg groaned. “And now, nobody is going to give a shit about trying to catch him. I guess I’ll just add it to my pile of cold cases, make a fort out of them someday.”

John chuckled and elbowed him.

“Thanks, Greg. For today, I mean. It was nice, getting out there again…”

“Hey, don’t get all soppy on me. Just promise me to try getting back on your own two feet, okay? No more drinking,”

John promised with a roll of his eyes, and Greg dropped him off at 221B Baker Street, feeling he had at least accomplished something good today.

 


	3. Bottle Shaped Friend

John let himself in, closed the door and immediately felt stifled by the place he used to call home. Too many memories, and one glaring absence. It was so quiet now, but it hadn’t changed one bit and it smelled so familiar...  John could still catch Sherlock’s scent after all this time. Or was he just imagining it? He couldn't even trust his own senses anymore where Sherlock was concerned. Sometimes, he even thought he saw him in the bustling London crowd, and he'd run after his ghost more than once, as fast as his legs would take him, stumbling and knocking people over, only to lose him or find out the person he had thought was Sherlock didn't even look like him all that much. And that was before he'd started drinking, so he couldn't even blame it on the stuff. John had just gone round the bend, and with that realization came the drinking.

John closed his eyes as he leaned against the front door and inhaled deeply. Fuck what anyone else thought, it did still smell like Sherlock: a strange mixture of aggressive chemicals, dust, smoke and expensive soap. John tried to pretend Sherlock was still there, that he could tell him all about today's adventure with Greg, but it was no use. Oh, John could still picture Sherlock perfectly, down to the tiny speck of gold in his right eye. The problem was that his smiling face invariably morphed to the lifeless, staring, bloody mess lying on the sidewalk. Every. Single. Fucking. Time.

John's hands shook so violently at the thought, he stuck them under his armpits and paced the room for a bit, trying to replace that memory by anything else: a sunny meadow, a sleeping kitten, any fucking positive image his mind could conjure, but always, the bloodied sidewalk returned, and those glazed eyes, just staring at nothing..."Enough!" he growled and paced more furiously.

_ Why did he make me watch? Why? _ John closed his eyes, he still had no answer to that.

"Fuck it," he muttered and went on all fours in front of the sofa to catch the whisky bottle that had rolled under it just that afternoon.

It felt like it had been a hell of a lot longer than that, and the whisky was beckoning him like an old friend, eager to drown away his sorrows and wrap him up in warmth. Finally, his fingers curled around the sticky glass neck of the bottle and he pulled it towards him, shook it and smiled victoriously upon hearing the liquid slosh around at the bottom. Except... He'd promised Greg.

_ No, he made you promise, that's not the same. And what kind of idiot asks a drunk to promise not to drink? _

John snorted. That  _ had _ been rather idiotic. But he'd promised, and Greg had been nice, and patient all day long, taking him out on one of those cases he'd never thought he'd see again. He could even write it! Call it ‘The Monster Crying Bloody Tears’. That was catchy. Not that he’d write in on the blog, that would get Greg into all sorts of trouble, but he could write it for himself. He had liked writing, it helped him wind down and sort out his ideas. Just what he needed really.

John let go of the bottle, vaguely aware it thudded on the carpet underfoot and rolled under the sofa again. He heaved himself up to go in search of his laptop. He hadn't used it in so long, he hoped it still worked. But first, he had to find it. He had no idea where he'd last used it, or when. Was it before...? Bugger. It must have been, but after a frantic search, it wasn't anywhere in the flat. The only place he hadn't looked was... John eyed the door to Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock had always been "borrowing" his stuff without warning, but there was no way John was going in there, in his bedroom. It would be like stepping back into the past, like walking over his grave. That door had not been opened since  _ he  _ was last here, and... John just couldn't do it.

He turned away from the door and returned to the living room, dropping on the sofa. He stared blindly at nothing in particular before finally reaching for the bottle again. There was just a little left, barely a quarter bottle, it wouldn’t hurt anyone and it would help him forget. Just a glass to help him sleep. A sip. Just a sip. Greg didn't even need to know about it.

 

ooo

 

“I don’t believe you!” John heard at the periphery of his consciousness. “JOHN!”

John jolted awake, trying to stand on his own two feet to fight back whatever loud threat was attacking him. It had to be at least a dragon or something _.  _ Unfortunately, his coordination was lagging miles behind and he only managed to fall back clumsily in the sofa, feeling sick at all the sudden motion. He looked around to spot what had woken him up from the black hole he’d drunk himself into and found Greg’s very unhappy face. No overly bright smile for him today. Nope.

“Goddamnit, John. Even Sherlock tried to stay sober for a few days after he promised me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath and announced: “Alright, that’s it: no murder for you.”

“What?” John slurred, his brain trying to catch up with what was going on.

“Our killer from yesterday left us another body during the night, same MO. I thought you’d like to come along, but seeing as you decided to drink yourself into a stupor again, you’re not coming.”

“No... wait. It’s not- I didn’t-” John closed his eyes, his temples assaulted by a steady beat of drums while his eyeballs were being poked by a thousand needles. And it felt like a rat had crawled in his mouth and died there. What  _ had _ he been drinking?

“Sure you didn’t,” Greg snorted. “Well, I’m off, because I actually have a job to do, but expect me tonight for a lecture. You’re not getting off that easy.”

He was gone before John could explain anything, and now he felt guilty and ashamed, miserable and… yes, nauseous too. John rushed to the bathroom and… well, suffice to say, it wasn’t pretty. He stumbled to the kitchen next to gulp down as much water as he could manage without throwing up again, took a couple of paracetamols, then passed out on the sofa again, his head buried under the cushions. When he woke up again, it was only early afternoon but he felt marginally more human. He decided he might as well go and sort out his laptop problem. Not by entering Sherlock’s room, the very thought made him cringe with dread. No, he’d just have to get himself a new one. He had no guarantee his old one even worked anymore, anyway, so he was being perfectly reasonable. Plus, he’d have the added benefit that it would fill the rest of the day, and he’d be so annoyed at the salesperson he would have to deal with, spewing gibberish about hard drives, processors and whatnots, that he would not be dreading Greg’s visit quite so much.

 

ooo

 

Greg arrived late in the evening and he looked completely knackered by his day’s work, but he started in on him as soon as he crossed the threshold, squaring his shoulders and giving him a lecture he wouldn’t soon forget, because he was right, of course he was, and John told him so when he paused mid-rant to catch his breath.

“What?” Greg asked, unable to process John’s quiet acceptance.

“You’re right. I know all that, but-”

“But?”

John sighed and patted the sofa next to him so Greg would sit down and stop looming above him quite so much, which he did, all the fight draining out of him as he sagged into the soft cushions with a weary groan.

“I didn’t intend to drink yesterday. It just sort of happened when I got back. Sometimes this place can get a bit… overwhelming. It’s almost like he’s going to step out of…” John glanced at the door leading to Sherlock’s bedroom and gestured vaguely towards it. “There.”

Greg sighed.

“I’m not really surprised. It’s been well over a year and coming back here feels like I'm stepping into the past,” Greg said gesturing towards Sherlock’s violin, partitions, papers with his handwriting lying about on every surface, case files everywhere. “Why don’t you just move out? Start fresh? I’m sure it’ll help you in the long run. Honestly, we were all a bit surprised you stayed on, and I bet no one but Mrs Hudson and me have seen this place. It’s like a bloody museum dedicated to Sherlock Holmes.”

“That’s the point,” John replied somberly. “Everyone still thinks Sherlock is a fraud… was a fraud… He wasn’t. I know he wasn't, and every little thing here proves it, proves that he was a real genius. I can’t leave and let all that be swept away under the carpet. It’s all I have left of him."

Greg patted his knee.

"Yeah, I know. He was a fucking genius. Don't know how anyone could ever doubt it. We've all seen him in action, and only a real genius can afford to have such a dreadful personality, right?"

John chuckled. He never thought he'd be able to talk about Sherlock again and feel good about it, but Greg knew just what to say. He had known him longer, after all, knew him better in some aspects, and had never doubted him, despite all his colleagues ganging up on him and ratting him out to his superintendent. John felt a new surge of appreciation for the DI and knew just how to thank him. He jumped to his feet, told him not to move and went in the kitchen to fetch the takeouts he'd brought back on his way home, microwaving them as instructed.

"Here," John said handing him over one of the blank boxes. "I bet you haven't had real food in forever."

Greg took the box and chuckled.

"Takeaway doesn't count as real food, John. Everyone knows that."

"It does when it comes from Angelo's."

Greg opened his box and moaned in approval, digging in with gusto when John handed him a fork. If John had known this was the fastest way to get his friend to shut up, he'd have offered the food before he got started on the lecture, but in the end, he was glad they'd talked. Greg seemed to understand him in a way Mrs Hudson or Mycroft couldn't. A grimace forced its way onto his face despite the good food and company. John really didn't understand the elder Holmes. The man seemed completely unaffected by what had happened to Sherlock. That, or he was really, really good at hiding it... 

Putting that particular train of thought back to where it belonged, which was 'DELETE', although he still hadn't found out how to do that, John focused his attention on Greg instead. He looked a bit more relaxed now, but he still had a haggard look about him. The day must have been difficult, especially after yesterday's events.

"Is it a serial killer, then? Our guy? It was him again, right?" John asked between bites, too curious to wait until they'd finished.

"Yep, definitely him. Blood tears drawn down his face, same cut to the same hand, two punctures at the neck. Easier to find when you know what you're looking for. But you know you can't call him a serial killer."

_ ‘Yet’ _ was not said, but they could both hear it loud and clear. However, with two murders in two nights, the killer was not stopping now.

"Any link between the victims? He wasn't another child molester was he? Proven or otherwise." 

"Doubt it. Has all the appearances of an upstanding citizen. Businessman, well off, married thirty years, two kids in college, and everybody loves him: neighbours, colleague, family... He seems to be Sommer's polar opposite, in fact."

John frowned. There had to be something that linked the two victims, a reason why they were chosen by the killer, them and not somebody else.

"And physically?"

Greg shook his head.

"Nope. Leland, that's the second victim, is much older, skinny, tanned and even had a manicure. Very disturbing."

John chuckled.

"Okay, that definitely rules out that line of inquiry. Doesn't seem like they'd be haunting the same circles either."

"We're looking into it, but there's a mountain of data to wade through. That's our best bet for now though. Whether they go to the same barber or order from the same coffee shop, had a delivery by the same company, or were just rude to the same bank teller. Could be anything, and we might not find a bloody clue."

"That's a cheery thought…” Then he thought of a worse one. “Do you think there will be another tonight?"

"God, I hope not. I have made no headway with the last two, and if there's a third on top of that, there's going to be all that much more information to sort through and the Super is going to want results for yesterday."

John winced. Greg was already stressed to breaking point and John had been adding on like the selfish idiot that he was.

"Listen, you're exhausted. Why don't you go sleep upstairs? I haven't slept up there in a while so it might be a bit dusty, but It'll save you the trip home and it looks like you could use every minute of sleep you can spare."

Greg looked at him askance, but nodded.

"Yeah, why not? I'm not even sure I can find enough strength to go back, to be honest."

"You seemed to have enough steam to lecture me all night," John teased, piling up their empty takeaway boxes to throw away before giving Greg a hand up.

"Some things are worth the effort, an empty flat is not one of them," Greg replied matter of factly.

John squinted.

"Not sure if that was a compliment, what with comparing me to your flat. If your office is any indication, it must be messy as hell."

"Yep," Greg said cheerily and mussed John’s fluffy hair.

"Hey! I can still throw you out on your arse, you know?"

Greg laughed and wished him goodnight, then made his way up the creaky stairs to John's old bedroom.


	4. The Girlfriend Shirt

Greg slept like a log. He could have done with a couple more hours, but he felt as refreshed as he was ever going to be while they had a crazy killer on the loose, and if his ringing phone was any indication, there was another body to take care of.

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

“Sorry to wake you, but there’s been another. A woman this time.”

Sally. She didn’t sound all that well rested either.

“Okay, just text me the address, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Greg stretched and got up. He could do with a quick shower too, the body wasn't going anywhere. Greg picked up his suit he had left to hang on a chair, glad it didn’t look too rumpled and went downstairs to check on John, hoping he hadn’t gone and drunk himself under the table again as soon as he’d had his back turned. He should comb through the place for his bottles. And soon. Greg knew Mycroft had paid off a lot of the shops and pubs around Baker Street so they wouldn’t sell John any alcohol, but even he couldn’t cover the whole of London.

When Greg leaned over the sofa to spy on John, he was relieved to find him sleeping peacefully. Nothing like the passed out mess he’d found the last two days, or the times before that.

“John,” he called softly, nudging his shoulder.

John shot up like a rocket and their heads collided. Then, they both recoiled, holding their foreheads and cursing loudly.

“Fuck!” Greg repeated. “I didn’t know you were such a light sleeper when you don’t drink.”

“Yeah, well - bloody hell that hurt! - you do now. Congratulations."

Greg snorted at John being so snarky when he got up on the wrong side of the bed, or sofa in his case.

"Okay, I'm going to take a shower before I leave, if you don't mind. Sally called."

"Another?" John asked, perking up.

"A woman this time. Want to come along?"

"I'm not grounded anymore?"

"You already missed out on number two. I'm not  _ that _ cruel." 

"Right then, I'll get- Wait, is that my tee-shirt you're wearing?" John asked giving him the strangest of looks.

"I wasn't going to wear my suit to bed. There is such a thing as being overdressed. I didn't think you'd mind, so I just picked one from your drawers."

"No, that's okay," John said, a giggle escaping him before he slapped both hands over his mouth, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

Greg looked down at the shirt but it looked bland enough, light grey with some faded black letters on it. He’s thought it was just an old shirt but it obviously wasn’t.

"What?" he asked, annoyed.

"S'nothing," John said, his mouth quivering as he strived not to burst out laughing again. "It’s just... That's the shirt my girlfriends used to borrow when they slept over. Always that one. I don’t know why. I think it might have magical powers."

They stared at each other for all of a few seconds before John dissolved into laughter again. Greg huffed, and left for the bathroom, pointedly slamming the door shut behind him, but he was secretly pleased he'd managed to make John laugh so much, even if it was completely by accident and at his expense.

 

ooo

 

John wouldn't let him leave before he'd eaten something, so they stopped by Speedy's on their way out for a muffin and take away coffee. John helped him juggle between the two as he drove them to the crime scene.

"What took you so long?" Sally asked when he stepped out of the car, then spotted John and shook her head in annoyance. "Okay, forget I asked. It’s this way," she added striding off on her high heels.

"You sure I shouldn't..." John motioned towards the car.

Should he come to the crime scene? Probably not. Did Greg give a fuck what his colleagues thought? Nope.

"No way, you're coming. You helped a great deal last time and I need all the help I can get before this gets completely out of hand."

John smiled and walked alongside him, continuing the conversation they were having in the car about the rarity for a serial killer to choose indiscriminately amongst men and women.

"I doubt that's gonna help us,” Greg pointed out. “I bet you anything those were the most difficult killers to catch."

John didn't know but promised to look into it.

"Linda Hill," Sally announced while they suited up into the unflattering protection gear. "Thirty-eight, widowed ten years ago from some rich guy after a short mariage. Everyone suspected foul play, of course, a woman that young and pretty marrying a wealthy old geezer, but nothing could be proven. No children, lives alone. Her maid found her this morning."

Greg only needed to glance at the victim to know she was another one. The bloody tears were unmistakable, but he accounted for the cut hand and two perforations at the neck just to be sure. He sighed. A third victim... This was going to make things difficult. His superiors would be pressuring him, not that it would make him find the killer any faster, he'd just lose time listening to their whining. And then, there was the press. He could only pray they never got wind of this, or they'd make the investigation all that much more hellish, not to mention he positively loathed the obligatory press conference meant to appease people. It was a farce. The press only wanted the gory details, to blame the police for the lack of results, to find a scapegoat, eventually. Just look what happened to Sherlock. Fucking vultures.

"Looks like she went down fighting," John commented, gaining his attention. "Her nails."

Greg looked at the long, polished, purple monstrosities crowning her fingers while John turned her hand around so he could see better.

"She scratched him?"

"Looks like it. I doubt she’d be going around with her nail job in that state. Look at her make-up."

John looked around, seemingly searching for someone.

"Where's Anderson? Didn't see him last time around either, now that I think about it."

Sally shifted uneasily next to him and Greg wordlessly told her to take a hike.

"He didn't take Sherlock's…  fall, well."

"What?!" John exclaimed angrily, as expected. " _ He  _ didn't take it well?! I could have sworn that’s what he  _ wanted. _ "

Then John closed his eyes, took two deep breaths, and just like that, it seemed John had managed to let go of his anger, as if he’d turned a switch off. It was kind of impressive, but also very worrying. That, whatever he'd just done, was not a good way to deal with his emotions.

"So who's your new forensic? I hope he's better than the last one."

Tone neutral but with a little jab, just for the sake of it. John had always had a way with words.

"Porky!" Greg hollered over his shoulder.

The man who came forth should by no means have been nicknamed "Porky". He was wiry but graceful, and had shrewd green eyes that made you think twice about asking why the hell he was called Porky. Greg grinned at John’s confused expression while Porky looked him up and down before offering his hand, making an irritated sound at the back of his throat when he recalled it was gloved, took it off, then offered it again.

"You're doctor John Watson, aren't you? I used to read your blog. I'm Will Porkington, but just call me Porky, like everyone else."

Greg cringed at the sudden mention of something Sherlock-related so soon after he'd gotten angry about Anderson's involvement in his suicide, but John just took off his own glove and shook the man's hand. The curiosity on John’s face was obvious though, because Porky added, without any sort of prompting.

"I'd rather everyone call me Porky to my face than behind my back, because they will regardless. Besides, I like bacon," he said with a straight face, which startled a laugh out of John. 

He seemed to like the bloke already a hell of a lot better than Anderson and they'd barely exchanged a few words. Greg had to admit he did too, not only because there was a lot less snide comments being flung around, but also because Porky was damn good at his job. John asked him about her nails and his forensics crouched to have a better look, nodding in agreement at the very likely possibility.

"Only, it looks like whoever she got her claws into tried to clean it away,” Porky pointed out, taking the time to show John as if he was teaching a class. “See these scratches inside here, and it chipped all the nail polish on the other side even though this is not her dominant hand, which is in a much better state by the way."

John compared both hands and gave a low whistle.

"That's impressive," he said and Porky beamed.

"Thanks. That's high praise coming from you. And don't worry, I'll make sure her hands are taken care of."

"Are you two quite finished with the flirting? This is a crime scene, you know?" Greg said.

John snorted and told him not to be jealous, that he was brilliant too, and returned to his inspection of the body without batting an eyelash while Greg was still trying not to blush at what he'd just said. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said anything that nice to him, even if it was just in jest.

"I wonder what the message is?" John said.

Greg blinked.

"What message?"

"The tears. It serves no purpose, but it obviously means something to the killer or he wouldn’t bother to do it, would he? A ritual? Or maybe he's trying to tell us something? The police, I mean. Either way, there's a message here we're not getting."

"Oh, right, of course," Greg almost slapped himself for not even having looked into it yet, but to be honest, they were already drowning in the amount of data from the various crime scenes and it had just seemed to be part of the killer's deranged mind. However, if, as John suggested, there was some hidden meaning to the symbol, he definitely had to look into it.

"Something religious? Biblical maybe?" Greg suggested because that was the first thing to come to his mind and he generally had a good instinct.

John nodded thoughtfully.

"Yeah, I wouldn't be surprised. That might give us his motive too. I'll add it to the list and we can look it up when we've gone through the usual investigation?"

_ We _ . Greg smiled at that, glad to see John was opening up a bit, including people instead of holing himself up all alone.

"You mean the boring part?" he teased.

"It’s not boring... There's the fridge, that was fun. I'd say I'll race you to it, but I think we're being watched."

Greg glanced around and sure enough, several SOCOs and even Sally were staring at them… No, not them…  they were staring at  _ him _ ,  _ not  _ John, which didn’t make any sense since they saw him every day. He couldn’t have that though, so he used all the force of his DI persona to glare at them and they promptly found something to be busy with.

"That was weird," John whispered as they walked to the kitchen.

Greg grunted, then frowned at the fridge. It was a gleaming silver monstrosity without so much as a magnet on it. Completely unhelpful, except to tell him Mrs Hill was filthy rich and a neat freak, which he already knew from the rest of her flat.

“Let’s hope it’s more helpful on the inside,” he muttered.

“Given the size of the thing, our murderer could be hiding in there,” John joked and pulled the largest of the two doors open.

No killer hiding in there but an impressive amount of alcohol: bottles of all sizes, shapes and colours. A vibrant rainbow of alcohol. Greg slammed the door shut.

“Right, don’t know what I was expecting, but my fridge theory still holds true,” Greg said uneasily, trying to laugh it off.

“Doesn’t she eat anything?” John wondered, going through the cupboards and not finding much food in them either except for a few crackers and low-fat biscuits.

“Lives off takeouts like Sommers maybe? I hope we don’t end up with something lame like the takeout-killer,” Greg groaned because the media would have a field-day with something like that once they got hold of it. He checked the bin, but no sign of empty takeout boxes. “On a diet maybe?”

John chuckled and they inspected the rest of the place: a huge, luxurious flat in an upscale building but the thing was filled sparsely with modern furniture, all gleaming plastics, metal and glass, and everything was kept utterly spotless to the point that it lacked any kind of personality. If Greg had been led there without information to go on, he would have thought it was a set-up for a magazine photoshoot, not a real home. 

Interrogating the neighbours yielded nothing new. Either they claimed not to know her, or they sniffed at them, literally, as if talking to the police was so far beneath them they couldn’t be bothered to try.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Greg groused after yet another dismissal. “I’m starting to think the killer is just picking them at random. “We don’t even know how he got in this time. I hope he’s not getting smarter or we'll never catch him.”

“Lestrade!” Sally called urgently, running towards them from the other end of the hallway on the floor above Mrs Hill’s.

“What is it now?” Greg asked, knowing she only ran in her heels when she absolutely had to, so it had to be an emergency of some sort.  _ God, I hope it’s not a fourth victim. _

“The press,” she hissed.

“What? How did they even get wind of this?”

“I have no friggin idea, but they’re barking at the door. I called another team over to keep them off limits but they’re already raving about a serial killer and demanding answers. You know how they are. Think we bloody owe them the truth.”

“Someone tipped them off, has to be. Fuck! This is going to make everything so fucking complicated. If I can find the one who blabbed, he’s going to have an earful, at the very least.”

“Could be the killer,” John said.

“Why would he do that?” Sally asked, unconvinced.

“Isn’t that what serial killers want? Attention? Show off how fucking clever they are?” he explained tersely, and there was an eery echo in his words of what Sherlock had been accused of. “It just seems convenient they were alerted now, with the third murder and while we're still on the crime scene.”

“Right, I’ll go sort out that mess then, try to get them to tell me who tipped them off. John, I think you’d better leave through the backdoor, I don’t want you to be dragged into any of this.”

John sighed, but agreed readily enough and bid them goodbye before disappearing down the end of the hallway, then Greg and Sally made for the lobby downstairs.

“What?” Greg asked after a couple of minutes spent in tense silence.

“Nothing. I didn’t say anything,” Sally said defensively.

“No, you didn’t but you’re almost vibrating with the urge to say something I’d rather not hear, and I know you,  it’s going to come out sooner or later and I’d rather sooner. Can’t be any worse than the pile of shit I’m already wading through.”

The lift doors closed and, on cue, Sally bluntly asked:

“What’s the deal with you and Watson?”

Greg sighed. This again. Why was she so bothered by John's presence? He'd been nothing but helpful and courteous, even to her.

“If it bothers you so much I brought him along, you can stop worrying. With the press hounding us now, there’s no way he’s setting foot on a crime scene again,” Greg narrowed his eyes at her. “Should I suspect you of calling those vultures over?”

“What? No! That’s not what I meant,” she replied hurriedly, waving her hands in denial. “No, I meant… personally, between you two…” 

Greg was glad the lift pinged open because it allowed him to hide some of his shock. However, he couldn’t let this kind of rumour run amok in his division, so he pulled her out of the lift and back around the corner, out of view of the milling crowd peering in through the lobby’s glass windows.

“What kind of question is that? John and I are friends, as you very well know. Can’t you people just leave him alone instead of gossiping about his private life all the time?”

“The gossip is more about you, actually.”

Greg groaned. That was even worse. He was supposed to be their boss, not the focus of the rumour mill.

“Explain,” he ordered.

Sally shifted on her heels, not meeting his eyes.

“Now,” he growled.

“It’s just that… after your divorce, well, you never dated…” she began uncertainly as if there was so much gossip about him, she wasn’t sure where to start.

“This job  _ is _ kind of demanding,” Greg pointed out. “It’s why my ex-wife cheated on me so often, or so she claims, and why she demanded a divorce. It can’t really be a surprise, not to mention it’s none of your business, that I haven’t found time to date.”

“You always find time for John though,” Sally pointed out.

“He’s a friend, and he needed all the help he could get after Sherlock jumped off a bloody building.”

Sally grimaced, but courageously ploughed on. She had guts, he had to give her that.

“Yeah, and I didn’t really give credit to those rumours before… not that it’s any of my business,” she added quickly. “But… you should have seen your face earlier when you were with Watson. Never seen you look at anyone like that, fairly knocked a decade off of you too, and I’m not the only one who saw it. You were positively glowing.”

Greg stared at her while trying to play the events back. There had been that moment when half his team had been staring at him instead of working, when… he’d just been happy to see John was opening up more, and they were teasing each other. It was just… nice.

“You’re all imagining things,” Greg said flatly. “Besides, I’m not gay, Sally, as you very well know since you just mentioned my ex- _ wife _ .”

“Yes,  _ ex _ -wife, so-”

“That’s not why we divorced. I’m not gay.”

“Well, neither is Watson from what I heard… except for Holmes. He would have made an exception for him, I’m sure.”

“That’s… ridiculous,” Greg said but knew there was some truth to it. “Just more silly gossip. If you’re all so bored down at the station that you find nothing better to do than wag your tongues all day, I’ll make sure everyone gets longer shifts and more paperwork than they can carry,” he warned and turned on his heels to go deal with the journalists trying to break through the police line and who went completely berserk when they caught sight of him, the flashes already half blinding him. 

_ Damn vultures. _

  
  



	5. Lost in Research

John avoided with ease the journalists that had amassed at the front door of the third victim's luxurious building. He pitied Greg who had to deal with them whether he wanted to or not. He probably was required to be polite, too. There were more than a few downsides to being a Detective Inspector, rather than a Consulting Detective. Sherlock would have just snarled at them and bowled them out of his way like pins in an alley. John smiled a bit wistfully at that and hurried home. He could at least help Greg by doing that research they’d talked about, it would save the poor man a few hours or he’d never get to sleep again before he caught the killer, and that could take a while. The murderer seemed too clever by half. He even seemed to know something of forensics since he’d tried to get rid of some evidence, and if he was the one who had called the press, then he was just plain cocky and confident he wouldn’t be caught. It could either mean he really was that cunning, in which case they were screwed, or that he would soon become careless and make a mistake. Sherlock had told him Jefferson Hope, the suicide cabbie from their first case, was very clever. Not as much as him, of course, no one was, or so Sherlock had believed before he did something incredibly stupid, but Hope was clever enough to have impressed him, and yet, he too had ended up making a mistake. 

Brooding as he was about past events, John was home before he knew it. He immediately headed for his new, gleaming laptop and switched it on while he took off his coat and shoes. He had to admit the device was a sight better than his old one, and much lighter too. He went to the couch with it to make himself comfortable, took pen and paper on his way, and immediately started submerging himself into the vast ocean of knowledge and bullshit that was the internet, navigating from link to link in search of what they might need to crack this case.

 

ooo

 

“Having fun, dear?”

John jumped in surprise, his laptop perilously close to toppling over to the floor before he caught it. He'd been so engrossed in his research, he hadn't heard his landlady approach.

“Jesus, Mrs Hudson! You scared me half to death! Are you wearing those damn slippers again? I liked it better when you wore your heels.”

“Yes, well I’m not getting any younger, John. But I thought you’d gone out with your little friend? That handsome detective?”

“Greg?” John asked, bemused by Mrs Hudson’s description. “I had to leave him at the crime scene, the press was crawling all over the place.”

“Those awful people. No decency,” she sniffed, not at all pleased with them since they’d torn down Sherlock’s reputation and more. “But I’m happy you were out for a bit. It’s not healthy for you to be locked up here all alone all the time.”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson,” John sighed before he got an idea worthy of Sherlock’s underhandedness. “You know… Greg might be convinced to come visit after work if you cook him that lovely steak and onion pie you make so well.”

“Flattery will get you a long way, young man,” she replied, not having bought his act for a second. “You’re lucky I’ve got the ingredients, but just this once, mind, I’m not your housekeeper.”

John chuckled and kissed her cheek to thank her before putting his notes in order. He still had a lot to check up on before he could show any of it to Greg but he felt a bubble of excitement rise in his chest. He was on to something, he could feel it. He just had to double check his data with more trustworthy sources. Luckily, Sherlock had a veritable library of the kind of books he needed, but first, he should text Greg to ask him over.

John switched his phone on and was surprised to find a message waiting for him.

 

**I swear if I have to say ‘No comment’ one more time today, I might just punch the moron responsible instead. -G**

 

John chuckled. Greg had the patience of a saint, so the journalists must really have been laying it on thick to get to him.

 

**It would be a shame if you were arrested for assaulting a moron and I had to eat Mrs Hudson’s delicious steak pie alone tonight. Dinner when you’re free? -J**

 

**You’re a lifesaver. Be there around 8. Need to go home for a change of clothes. -G**

 

**In that case, take an overnight bag, we might have a lot to discuss. Can you sneak out copies of the files you’ve got on the victims too? -J**

 

**Wouldn’t be the first time. -G**

John smiled and chucked his phone on the sofa, then pulled out the books he needed from the various shelves and haphazard piles set around the room. It might look like a right mess to people who didn’t know better, but everything was actually filed in a very precise order and in no time, John had everything he needed. He plopped himself right in the middle of the room so he’d have room enough to spread out and resumed his research.

 

ooo

 

“Yoohoo! John? Your date is here!” Mrs Hudson called from the front door, stepping into the living room with Greg in tow.  John would recognize those weary footfalls anywhere.

“Hey Greg!” John said, his nose still in his book as he finished his notes on some statistics he’d found. “And he’s not my date, Mrs Hudson.”

“Your guest, then,” she amended.

“Is that your pie I smell?” John asked, his head snapping up when his stomach growled in complaint that the mouth-watering food had not already been ingested. “Christ! Is it that late already?” He exclaimed and finally got up from the floor to stretch his limbs out.

“I did come and turn on the lights for you, dear,” Mrs Hudson said. “It's not good for your eyes, reading in the dark like that. I even left you a cuppa... but I see that was a waste of my time.”

John grinned sheepishly.

“Sorry, Mrs Hudson. I was-”

“I know, John, I know. I recognized the symptoms. Don’t you worry about it,” she said patting his cheek.

“Want to eat with us?” John asked.

“Oh no, I always say three’s a crowd. You boys have fun though,” she replied, winking at Greg as she walked out.

Greg was still standing by the door, shifting from foot to foot as he looked uncertainly between him and the door through which Mrs Hudson had disappeared.

“Oh,” John said, realizing what the problem was. “Don’t worry, she’s always like that. She even tried setting me up with the mailman, although I have no idea why given he looks to be half my age. I think she fancies herself a matchmaker, which makes no sense since her own relationships are always a disaster.”

John took slow, deliberate steps to extricate himself out of the labyrinth of books and notes that had spread around him to join Greg.

“Hungry?”

“Starving,” Greg admitted, chuking his bag and coat onto the sofa while John started setting the table. “What’s all that, then?” he asked gesturing at the papery labyrinth.

“Research, remember?” 

“You’ve been at it all day?”

“Since I left you, yeah, pretty much. I thought I could help out a little that way since those bloody reporters are going to slow you down.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Greg muttered and dropped into one of the chairs while John took the other and started cutting the pie. “Press conference tomorrow at noon, as if I don’t have better things to do. What a waste of time.”

John winced in sympathy and then moaned as he ate his first bite of Mrs Hudson’s pie.

“I really have to ask her for that recipe. I can’t always trick her into doing it for me.”

“Always knew you had an evil streak,” Greg said and made a similar groan of satisfaction as he tasted the food. “Completely worth it though.”

They were silent for a while after that, delighting in the home-made food after a difficult day spent trying to figure out the strange murders their separate way.

“So, find anything interesting? Because I sure didn't,” Greg asked

"Looked into biblical stuff about tears of blood and there was nothing. Lots of tears,  _ lots _ of blood, but not the two together."

"Really? I could’ve sworn there was something to it."

"There are weeping statues, of the Virgin Mary usually, but they’re generally hoaxes and I really don't see how that fits in with the case."

Greg took another bite, munching thoughtfully.

“But you found something, or did you just ask me over for my charming personality?”

John froze for a second. There was no way he was going to admit he was glad he had found something so he had an excuse to invite Greg over. Nor was he going to admit he was relieved Greg was staying over because he slept better with him in the same flat, than his mere presence kept the ghosts at bay. Greg had a strangely appeasing effect on him. John chuckled, hoping he didn't sound too nervous.

“I did find something. Finished?”

"Yep,” Greg answered, pushing his plate over and patting his belly appreciatively. “I'll get fat if you keep this up.”

John snorted. Between the hours and the habits Greg kept, he doubted stuffing himself with a healthy meal now and then was going to have much of an impact on his figure.

“Come and have a look then,” John said waving towards the sofa while he picked up his notes and a book from the mess he'd left on the floor. Organized mess, he amended, but he'd still have to put all of it away before Mrs Hudson, who was not his housekeeper, tried getting rid of it nonetheless by simply vacuuming over the piles and hoping for the best like she had done with the vase he'd knocked over and had been too drunk to care about cleaning up himself. He should make amends for that too. John sighed as his mental list of things to do just kept getting longer the more he stayed sober.

“Like I said, I found nothing in the Bible about tears of blood, but I did in mythology, and you're going to love this. Here,” John said simply handing over the book at the appropriate page, sitting next to Greg and watching him as he took in the picture of the woman with snakes in her hair and dark trails running down her cheeks

“Tears of blood,” Greg said. “Sure looks familiar. What does it represent?”

“A Fury, a vengeful Goddess that punishes criminals,” John replied, “And we already know Sommers was far from being innocent.”

“Allegedly,” Greg corrected.

“If that helps you sleep.”

“So you think the other two victims were guilty of something too? That the killer is punishing them as a Fury would?”

John nodded and reached for their files.

“Yeah. I might have dismissed the idea, but then I remembered Sally mentioning Mrs Hill had been suspected of doing away with her husband. I know that might just be rumours but it would be two out of our three victims who were  _ allegedly  _ accused of something and got away with it. Maybe the killer thinks he’s doing the world a favour by killing those people.”

“But how would he know about them? If they haven’t been convicted, how could the killer possibly know they were suspected in the first place?”

“Tabloids maybe?” John answered and slapped his forehead. “Damnit, I didn’t think to look that up. Guess I know what I’ll be doing tonight.”

“We. I’m not letting you do all the work, John,” Greg chided.

“You have a press conference tomorrow,” John pointed out. “You need all the beauty sleep you can get.”

“Oi!” Greg exclaimed, punching his arm playfully. “I resent that!”

John snickered at his look of mock hurt and they immediately began digging in their victim’s past. Timothy Leland, the second victim, in particular, but they still needed to find somewhat solid proof on Linda Hill to confirm whether she was a black widow or not. As for Sommers, John had no doubt he was guilty and, speaking as his friend and not a DI, Greg was pretty convinced of his guilt too.

"Wow, look at the number of drunk driving offences she got," John marvelled. "And then driving drunk  _ and _ without a license! She's kind of stubborn, isn't she? Not to mention dangerous, it's a miracle she didn't hit anyone. Or maybe she got away with a hit and run, and only the killer knows?"

"Well, at least she's guilty of  _ something _ , because there's nothing here about her being suspected of anything in her husband's death, unless the file got purged like it was with Sommers? But that's a rather unusual procedure."

"All hail the power of Google," John announced and switched on his laptop, searching through old articles while Greg went through Leland's file.

John found a bunch of tabloids smearing the widow's reputation whose husband had been famous for something or other to do with music. They branded her with all kinds of names so he had some difficulties taking that source of information seriously. It read like high school gossip. Greg on the other hand found out Leland had been interrogated on the grounds of embezzlement, on a very, very large scale, which had caused his investigation to be passed onto more competent authorities and then... Nothing.

"That stinks of a cover-up,” John muttered, and then googled him too, discovering that the embezzlements in question had ruined lots of people’s lives, driving some to commit suicide when they lost their life’s savings.

“Christ,” Greg said, leaning into him to read at the same time. “It looks like you may be onto something. I’ll get the team to dig into it more officially. It may not give us a lead on who the killer is anyway, but we’re that much closer if we know why he’s doing it.”

“Yeah, and then you only need to arrest a vengeful monster. Good luck with that.”

“Do you think it could be a woman?” Greg asked, pointing at the image of the Fury. “That one’s a woman.”

John hummed. The Furies were all female as far as he knew and he told Greg a condensed version of the myth: how they were born of the blood of Uranus when Cronus castrated him, which made them both wince; how most myths spoke of three Furies: Tisiphone the vengeful, Megeara the grudging and Alecto the implacable, but that, if there were more, they were always described as women, crying blood, wielding snakes and sometimes sporting big, dark wings.

“To be honest I didn’t even know women could be serial killers. It’s not like we get that many here,” Greg commented.

John wisely did not mention the cabbie. He thought it would be in bad taste since John had been the one to kill him. He had no intention of going down that path and putting Greg in an impossible position. Not that he thought Greg would arrest him… Would he? No. Maybe... John shook his head, and dug out more notes.

“Actually,” he said. “According to this,” and he hefted a heavy compilation of criminal data onto Greg’s lap. “Up to one in six serial killers are women.”

Greg whistled, and then sobered.

“So we may be looking for  _ a woman? _ ”

“Careful there, Greg. You’re sounding a tad bit sexist. Don’t let Donovan hear you. Anyway, if they died from the injection… well, I’ve always heard poison is a woman’s weapon of choice.”

“I should be getting the lab results by tomorrow, we’re getting prioritized for this case now. But whatever was used was difficult to trace and they’ve had to work by elimination, not to mention it might be two different injections since there are-” Greg blanked out, blinked and then came back online when John snapped his fingers in front of his face. It would have been funny if John hadn’t been so worried at his sudden silence.

“Are you okay? You’re not having a coronary on me, I hope?”

Greg batted his hand away.

“No, you twat. I was just thinking…”

“Oh, so you were having _an_ _epiphany_. So sorry for barging in,” John teased, unable to help himself, grinning like a loon at the face Greg was making, before his friend huffed, ready to give as good as he received.

“No, Mister Genius. I was just wondering how a doctor could have missed that twin injections could come from the bite of a snake. Snakes he has probably had under his nose all day, might I add,” he added, pointing at the image of the Fury with a whole wig of snakes.

Greg then sat back in the sofa, crossed his arms over his chest and smirked at him, quietly satisfied at John’s lack of a comeback, but in his defense, he was gobsmacked enough that he had trouble making his jaw work.  _ How _ had he missed that? Why hadn’t it even crossed his mind? It’s not like he had never treated snake bites before, there had been a few in Afghanistan, but they had looked nothing like what he’d seen on the victims. They were usually more swollen, the flesh slightly jagged at the edges, whereas the victims’ were only slightly red and puckered at the edges and the skin around them discolored, almost necrotic looking. Maybe it depended on the type of snake? The type of venom?

“I need to do more research,” John announced, making Greg groan.

“No, you’ve been at it all day. What you need right now is sleep, and  _ I  _ most certainly need to sleep.”

John frowned. He hated to delay this, and he wasn’t even that tired, but Greg certainly needed to rest. He’d probably been running left and right all day.

“Right. Sleep. Good idea. You know where your room is,” he told him, trying not to sound too much like he was humouring him. “You can even borrow the girlfriend tee shirt again.”

That got Greg indignant enough that he went up without suspecting him. John knew Greg too well, and Greg should know better than to take his words at face value, so he must have been even more tired than he looked. But it was for a good cause, and now, John had the better part of the night to watch gory photos of snake bites and compare them to the puncture wounds on the victims.

 


	6. Vultures and Snakes

Greg walked as quietly as he could manage down the stairs to the living room where John slept, but the stairs were ancient and he didn't know which ones to skip to avoid the ungodly creaks that seemed to reverberate throughout the flat. It would be a miracle if he had not woken John up.

And it was. Except it had nothing to do with his precautions, or luck, or even godly intervention. John had simply passed out from exhaustion, slumped over the coffee table, his nose still stuck in his notebook, rather than going to sleep like he had thought he would, the stubborn git. Greg approached cautiously, wary of another headbutt coming his way if he startled John awake like yesterday morning, but he didn’t so much as stir, so Greg leaned over him to see what he’d been doing, reading what he could see of the notes he was drooling over: numbers and medical terms he couldn’t make sense off. There was something written in block letters at the top, he just needed to… Carefully, Greg pushed away tufts of John’s unruly hair, surprised at how soft it was, then finding his fingers lingering longer than they really should.

“Mhmm? Greg?” John mumbled, his voice heavy with sleep as he blinked up at him.

“Ah- Sorry,” Greg sputtered, snatching his hand away. “Didn't mean to wake you... But you'd be more comfortable in bed, you know?”

John rubbed the side of his cheek where some ink from his notes had transferred. Greg was hard pressed not to laugh at the "BITE" imprint standing out on his pale cheek. He wished he could stay to see John's face when he saw himself in the mirror, but he had to hurry to Scotland Yard to fill his team in on what they'd found, prepare for the dreaded press conference, and pray another dead body didn’t turn up before then.

"M'yeah. Good idea," John said and climbed clumsily onto the sofa before rolling onto his side, already fast asleep.

Greg picked up the blanket draped over the back of the sofa and tucked it around John when the large block letters of his notes caught his attention: NOT A SNAKE BITE, which was underlined twice.

“Thanks, John,” he murmured and left for work.

 

ooo

 

Greg hated journalists. What kind of idiotic question was that? How were they supposed to keep an eye on every Londoner? Sure, they wanted more security when there was a threat, but the rest of the time, they all resented the CCTVs and the police.

“No,” he sighed, addressing the room at large and not just that moron of a reporter. “There are no ‘counter-measures’ the police can put in place. We’re faced with a lone killer, not an organized terrorist group.”

He checked his watch, not for the first time, when his phone pinged. He let Sally take care of the next inane question to read the text.

 

**If you glare at those cameras any harder, they might explode. -J**

 

**I can’t believe you’re even bothering to watch. You know more about the case than all those idiots put together. -G**

 

**My friend's on the telly! Of course I'm watching! -J**

 

Sally nudged him and he glanced at her to see her smirking at him.

“What?” he asked, his shoulders hunched in defense.

“You’re doing it again. That was Watson, yeah?”

Greg was not going to admit  _ that, _ or she'd be annoyingly smug, so he ignored her and pocketed his phone instead. He didn’t need to give more fuel to his colleague’s overactive imagination. He took the next question, suddenly much more interested in the press conference than he’d been before. He pointed at a journalist at random, regretting it immediately when he recognized Kitty Riley.

“Is it true you don’t know how the victims were killed?” she asked.

“As I already said, they were killed in the same manner, probably by use of a lethal injection.”

“Probably?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“We are still waiting on toxicology reports. Whatever was used is not something we usually screen for.”

“So you don’t know,” she resumed. Bitch. “And is it true the victims were found crying tears of blood? How do we know they weren’t infected with some kind of virus?”

A wave of panic rippled through the room: anxious looks and raised voices, phones already out and ready to send out that juicy bit of gossip, whether it was true or not. Greg raised his hands to placate them and glared at Riley.

“I know you’re fond of ‘sensationalism’, Miss Riley, but I can assure you no such thing has been used.” The press assembled in the room still looked uncertain and Greg mentally cursed that damn woman for making him give away some of the information he’d hoped to keep from the public. “Those so-called tears of blood were drawn there by the killer post-mortem. In no way did they cry blood, nor was a virus used in the injection.”

Of course this raised another flurry of raised hands, each reporter craving for more gory details as the murders just got that much more ‘interesting’. He wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow’s newspaper.

“That’ll be all,” he announced before narrowing his eyes at his least favourite journalist. “A word, Miss Riley?”

The woman looked torn between excitement and dread. She probably knew what he was going to ask, but she was still hoping to weasel more information out of him than her competitors had. She followed him into the backroom, but Greg waited until Sally joined them and closed the door behind her.

“You’re well informed,” he said.

“That’s my job,” she replied, a touch of pride to her voice and posture that made him want to bite her head off and spit it out in the gutter where it belonged. He despised her more than his ex-wife, which was quite a feat. 

“I meant, you’re  _ too _ well informed, Miss Riley,” Greg amended with a shark like smile that he was pleased to see made her squirm just a bit, but she was tough and squared her shoulders.

“I don’t give away my sources.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of  _ that. _ I haven’t forgotten what you did to Sherlock. So is it another psychopath whispering in your ear? Because, if it is, and I think it might be because I’m starting to see a pattern here, I should just take you into custody for presumed complicity with a murderer.”

She jutted her chin out in defiance.

“Just long enough for all your friends out there to splash the no-doubt fantastic headlines across the front page and make a name for themselves while you’ll be in a smelly dark room for hours answering STUPID QUESTIONS!”

She flinched and looked decidedly more unsure of herself.

“It’s not what you think. It’s not the killer.”

“Who then?”

“I don’t give up my sources.”

“Alright, I respect that,” he said, watching relief flood through her before he addressed Sally. “Sergeant, please arrest Miss Kitty Riley.”

“It’ll be my pleasure,” Sally replied, taking her cuffs from her belt and snapping them open, before she walked towards the other woman with her heels clicking ominously on the tiled floor.

“Wait!” Riley exclaimed, taking a step back from Sally and her maniacal grin. “It’s not really a source. I can tell you… if you let me go…” Greg merely raised an eyebrow, daring her not to speak. ‘I just talked to the maid, Mrs Hill’s maid. I waited until everyone was gone and offered to share a cab home with her. I didn’t even know the others had bloody tears too, I just took a shot in the dark and you confirmed it.”

Sneaky, as usual. Greg couldn’t say he was surprised, but he was relieved to know it wasn’t one of his men who had blabbed to a journalist.

“Can I go now?” she asked, getting herself back under control, smoothing her skirt down and flicking her hair behind her shoulder.

“A deal’s a deal. But if I find copy-cats sprouting up because of you, you’ll have those deaths on your conscience  _ too. _ ”

Riley looked up at him with a mutinous expression.

“Sherlock Holmes was a fraud. I’m not sorry for telling the world, and I certainly didn’t push him off that roof.”

“Not physically, no, but you’re an idiot if you still think he was a fraud. I thought reporters were supposed to dig for the truth, you only scratched the surface. Where is your Richard Brook now?”

Riley scowled at him and turned on her heels, slamming the door behind her.

“I can’t believe it,” Sally said. “You actually managed to shut her up. You’re my hero.”

Greg grinned at her and they made their way to the lab. They needed to know what the victims had been injected with.

 

ooo

 

Later in the day, he received a text from John. He wouldn’t admit it but he was relieved to see it was all spelled out nicely, with punctuation  _ and  _ signed, which meant he hadn’t returned to the bottle.

 

**No new victim? -J**

 

**No, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one out there that hasn’t been found yet. -G**

**Please tell me you’re not buried under books or glued to your laptop again? -G**

 

**Okay. I won’t. -J**

 

**But you are, aren’t you? -G**

 

**I knew there were drawbacks to being friends with the finest detective of Scotland Yard. -J**

 

Greg would’ve laughed if it wasn’t for Sally’s sharp eyes drilling a hole into his skull. He did his best to keep a blank expression but he knew she wasn’t fooled. He didn’t know why Sally, along with his whole bloody division, had suddenly started to take an interest in his personal life, but he didn’t like it either, especially because she was wrong. So very, very wrong.

Finally, the toxicology results came in, and, unsurprisingly, it was snake venom. What was unexpected was that two different venoms had been used: one that paralysed the victims by attacking the nervous system, not enough to kill and it would have worn off on its own given time, but enough that they would be powerless to defend themselves, even if the killer was a small woman. Greg wasn’t sure if that validated their theory that the killer was a woman or if their murderer was just that cunning and deliberately leading them down a wrong path. The second venom, on the other hand, had been meant to kill and could have killed an elephant given the dose. It had caused heart failure in all three victims. An almost quick and painless death.

Greg stared at the overly long, overly complicated names of the specific venoms. Just looking at them gave him a headache. John probably knew more about them, especially because he was sure he had seen similar words in the doctor’s notes that morning. It would give him an excuse to stop by this evening, see if he was holding up alright.

_ Since when do I need an excuse? _

Greg furrowed his brow and sent his team to check out the leads on how to procure these snake venoms. He didn’t need to bother John with such things. Maybe he should let him be for a while? John wasn’t a copper, he wasn’t even a consulting detective, and if Greg had known that first crime scene would turn into such a high profile case, he never would have taken John along to begin with. Not this time around anyway. So yeah, maybe he should leave him alone for a while. Maybe.

_ He’s the one who contacted me first those last two times… He never reached out to me before. _

But that didn’t mean anything. It was just about the case, he was curious.

_ He invited me to dinner the last couple of days… He’s never done that before. _

So, he’s a bit lonely. Greg was too, if he had to be honest. It didn’t mean anything.

_ And to stay over for the night… And he didn’t drink on those nights. Coincidence? I think not. _

Okay, so maybe John really didn’t want to be left alone.

 

ooo

 

They’d done all they could for the day and no fourth body had been discovered. Greg hoped that was the end of it for a while, because he had been afraid the Fury would leave one corpse crying blood every night, for as long as they didn’t catch him, which would be a complete nightmare and something he wouldn’t get out of unscathed. He could either stop the Fury soon and redeem his reputation, or remain stumped while the bodies piled up and that would be the end of his career. It was all or nothing. If he failed, he’d be the scapegoat for Scotland Yard, for the press, for the population of London… In times of darkness, everyone needed someone to blame and he happened to be the ideal candidate. To be honest, it had been a miracle he’d retained his position after the whole Sherlock debacle, but if he didn’t stop this serial killer soon, there would be no saving grace for him, he’d be the one to fall this time around. Figuratively, but still… he had nothing if he didn’t have his job.

Greg stewed in those dark thoughts until he decided he didn’t feel much like going back to his empty flat tonight. He’d only be worrying further, driving himself into sleeplessness and chain smoking, maybe even a drink, or several… which was no way of setting a good example for John. Before he could second guess himself any further, Greg sent John a text.

 

**I owe you a dinner or two. Curry tonight? -G**

 

He put his phone away so he wouldn’t fiddle with it and stayed at his desk, trying to find links between the victims until John answered, one way or another. He could always stay at his office if need be. It would be a better alternative to pacing his own flat doing nothing useful. Greg was in the middle of listing parallels between their three victims that needed to be checked out when his phone pinged.

 

**Sounds good. I’ll find us a murder-less movie so you can relax a bit. -J**

 

Greg chuckled. John knew him all too well. 

 

**Good luck with that. -G**

 


	7. Connecting the Dots

John heard Mrs Hudson’s overly-enthusiastic greeting one floor down. Poor Greg was probably being thoroughly interrogated as to his presence at Baker Street for a third night in a row, and by the faint blush his friend was still sporting when he walked through the front door, Mrs Hudson had gotten the wrong idea entirely again.

“Everything alright?” John asked innocently, taking the plastic bag Greg was holding limply in one hand from which drifted the smell of appetizing spices. He loved curry.

“Uh- Yeah. That landlady of yours… She- She just…” Greg stuttered, making gestures with his hands John couldn’t make head nor tail of.

Greg gave up, apparently at a loss for words, and took off his vest, chucking it over a chair. John was suddenly very curious as to what the kind old lady had said to send a grown man into a sputtering mess, but he took pity on Greg who’d already had a hard day and pushed him towards the sofa.

“She’s a bit overwhelming, yeah. Don’t mind her, you get used to it after a while.”

Greg nodded his head and absent mindedly undid his tie and a couple of his shirt’s buttons, making himself at home.

“Long day?” John asked, handing him over one of the carton boxes.

“Yeah,” Greg sighed. “We’re not making much of a headway, but on the bright side there was no new victim found today. They were injected with snake venom, by the way, which confirms your Fury theory or it’s one hell of a coincidence.”

John hummed as he opened his box and inhaled the fragrant spices in the cloud of steam escaping.

“Do you think it’s a coincidence there were three murders and three Furies?” John asked waving his fork at Greg as he spoke before digging into his meal.

The detective chewed on his meal as he started to relax, trying to organize his thoughts in a different manner.

“You think there are three killers, or that there will only be three killings, one for each Fury?” Greg asked back.

“Could go either way, I suppose, but three killers working together, using the same MO, that’s rather rare, isn’t it?”

“Unheard of, even, I’d say," Greg answered around a mouthful.

“Right, it would be easier if we could just rule that out, but imagine that is the case, who was killed by the vengeful, who by the grudging and who by the implacable?” John asked but his tone was playful now.

“The grudging would obviously be Leland, Greg pointed out. "He didn’t technically kill anyone, although his selfish actions did. The number of people who hold a grudge over him must count in the hundreds, maybe even the thousands.”

“That’s a lot of suspects,” John teased and received a nudge in the knee in retaliation that almost sent his box falling to the floor. “I’d say the vengeful would be Sommers. Melissa’s father certainly wanted to get revenge on him, not that I blame him.”

“So that leaves the implacable for the widow?”

“Well, it did happen ten years ago, and yet she was still given retribution,” John pointed out.

“True, if she was effectively guilty. But it still begs the question of how these people were chosen, these cases aren’t exactly recent. The widow was ten years ago, the embezzlement eight and Melissa disappeared five years ago. I didn’t work on any of those cases myself though.”

A gleam lit up in John’s eye.

“Do you know anyone who did?” he asked.

“Off the top of my head, no. They’re not exactly fresh cases and two of them were abandoned pretty quickly,” Greg said glancing towards the neatly stacked copies of the victims, before they both reached for them at the same time, the dregs of their meal long forgotten.

Unfortunately, they could find nothing of the inspectors or officers who’d worked on the cases at the time.

“I’d understand it in the Sommers case, and there wasn’t even the beginning of a case against Hill, but what happened to the Leland case?”

“That case was fishy from the beginning,” John muttered. “The fact that it started in the criminal division, then transferred to the financial one and then just disappeared altogether? I don’t like it.”

“Can’t blame you,” Greg replied. “I think we’ll just have to ask at the source then.”

“What? Ask around Scotland Yard?”

“No,” Greg said somberly. “The families are actually more inclined to remember who worked their case. Want to make the rounds with me tomorrow?”

John grinned, happy Greg had asked because he was frankly bored out of his mind, dawdling aimlessly around the flat now that he'd run out of things to research. It was always dangerous being bored when you had an addiction, so he nodded.

“In that case, I think that’s enough shop talk for tonight,” Greg said. “I was promised a relaxing evening.”

John chuckled and they both settled back in the sofa. John pressed play.

“My best friend’s wedding?” Greg asked incredulously, staring at the screen, then at John.

“What? No murders,” he pointed out. “I checked.”

“Never took you for a romantic,” Greg snorted.

“That’s because you’ve never been out on a date with me,” John replied, waggling his eyebrows, thinking Greg would laugh but his eyes went wide, then the same faint blush graced his cheeks and John was hard pressed not to ask what the hell Mrs Hudson had told the poor man. 

John turned back to the telly and tried following whatever was happening between Julia Roberts and Cameron Diaz, but it was a lot of silly nonsense so his imagination wandered off as it often would when he had too many things on his mind: the murders, Greg, Sherlock…  but he was happy to note that, right now, a drink wasn't even in the top three. John mentally high-fived himself before he felt a weight slowly crashing into him, forcing him to return to reality. Greg had fallen asleep and gravity was slowly but surely toppling him over. John got off the sofa before he was smothered to death by the heavier man and eased Greg down, frowning when he realized the sofa was not long enough to accommodate Greg the way it did for him. Greg would not be getting the good night's sleep he desperately needed this way. He hated waking him up but it was for his own good.

“Greg? Hey, Greg, wake up. You can’t sleep here,” John said, jostling his shoulder gentil, to which Greg replied by grunting and feebly batting a hand his way as if he was an annoying mosquito.

“Fine,” John chuckled. “Have it your way, but don’t come complaining to me in the morning.”

The taller man was bound to wake up with stiff muscles, but John did what he could to make him comfortable, undoing his tie the rest of the way and sliding it from his neck before hanging it to the back of the chair where he’d left his vest. Then the shoes. John considered his suit trousers. They were going to be wrinkled beyond repair if he slept in them, but it was one thing seeing Greg in his briefs in the morning and quite another to undress him down to his briefs himself at night. He doubted Greg would appreciate it, and he didn’t want to make things between them more awkward than Mrs Hudson had visibly managed to make them. John draped the blanket over his sleeping form and then carefully slid the fluffy pillow he usually slept with under Greg’s head, giving a satisfied nod that he’d done everything he could possibly do to make his guest comfortable. Turning on his heels, John steeled himself to sleep in his own room, thing he had been avoiding since Sherlock… wasn’t there anymore, when he thought he heard Greg call him softly.

“Greg?” he called back, tiptoeing to his side, but his friend was fast asleep, holding onto his pillow like a lifeline and snuggling into it to the point John wondered how he was able to breathe properly. John stared at him for a full minute, taking in his unusually relaxed and unguarded face, before he realized it was a very creepy thing to do. Hell, it was something he had caught Sherlock doing to him, but the mad genius always had the excuse of it being an experiment, so what was his excuse?

Confused, John retraced his steps to the stairs and quietly climbed up to his own bed. Maybe he’d misheard Greg. A mumbled “John” could be confused with a lot of other words, but even if he had said his name and was dreaming of him… John’s mind stalled at the very idea, then rebooted… Even if Greg was dreaming of him, they had been spending a lot of time together these last few days, so maybe he was dreaming of them chasing down the killer together, running around London to catch the Fury. That made John smile. He hadn’t felt this close to anyone since Sherlock, but even he could see it was doing him some good to reconnect to another human being. Not that Greg hadn’t tried before, because he had: he’d visited, often, lectured and ranted at John when he found him drunk, and he’d been positively livid when he’d found his gun out of its drawer… But John had always pushed him away before… 

What had changed?

Time? 

Was he finished grieving? John felt the hollow pain in his chest pulse and knew that wasn’t so. He thought he might never finish grieving for Sherlock: he’d been his best friend, had shined so bright and turned his life around like it was nothing where everyone else had failed… No, he’d always have a Sherlock-shaped hole in his heart, but the edges weren’t as ragged now.

Time.

John couldn’t fight against the inexorable passing of time,  dulling the ache, the grief, the regrets, and he shouldn’t want to. His subconscious must have understood that before he did, and that’s why he’d let Greg in this time around. Well... That and Greg's ignominious emotional blackmail. But John was glad for it because he felt better, more like his old self. Greg was kind, patient and he understood about Sherlock like no one else did. And, just because John’s friendship with Greg was growing didn’t mean he was replacing Sherlock, that wasn’t possible.

John finally drifted off to sleep, dreaming of chases on the moonlit rooftops of the city with Sherlock and Greg.

 

He woke up with a start when he heard a crash downstairs. 

_ Sherlock! _

In his hurry to rush downstairs, he got tangled in the bedsheets and crashed to the floor, cursing loudly, but at least it woke him up enough to realize it couldn’t be Sherlock. It never would be Sherlock. Waking up in his old bedroom had confused him, muddled dream and reality.

“John? You alright?” came Greg’s voice from the staircase along with his heavy footsteps and finally his face peering in through the doorway just as John managed to untangle himself.

The git looked torn between wanting to laugh at seeing him sprawled on the floor and wanting to come over to help, but decided on the more neutral:

“What happened?”

John glared pointedly at him before heaving himself up, rubbing his sore bum and elbows.

“ _ Somebody _ was making a racket downstairs and it sort of startled me awake.”

“Oh, jeez. I’m sorry, John,” Greg said, but a chuckle escaped him. “Really sorry,” he added, but his laughter nullified the apology as far as he was concerned.

“What the hell are you doing down there anyway?” John asked, throwing on his tartan dressing gown.

“Erm...spring cleaning?” Greg replied evasively as he followed John down the stairs.

John whirled around because Greg was clearly lying to him but all he could see from this vantage point, being shorter and a couple of steps down, was the vast expanse of Greg’s chest. He huffed and to Greg’s obvious amusement, shuffled past him to climb three steps so he was one step taller and at eye level. John thought of taking another step up so he could glare down at Greg, but decided that would be a bit too childish.

“What were you doing?” John demanded, staring into Greg’s dark eyes.

“Throwing away the bottles,” Greg confessed. “I meant to do it sooner… I didn’t think they’d be one hiding in the bison skull though. I only checked to be thorough so it kind of  startled me and escaped my grasp and well, you know the rest...”

John groaned. That was a very good, very expensive -for him- bottle of whisky. He’d been saving it from Mrs Hudson’s sneaky purges for a bad night- No… he was over that, he wouldn’t go down that path again, but he might if he had the opportunity, a reason to… and the means.

“Thanks,” John said, hanging his head in shame as his anger deflated like a pierced balloon, because he knew he couldn’t have done it himself.

Greg lifted John’s chin and smiled fondly at him.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to shove it in your face,” he said. “I’m rather proud of how you’ve pulled yourself together lately.”

“Thanks to you and your emotional blackmail,” John snorted. “Come on, I’ll cook you my speciality for breakfast while you clean up the mess you made.”

“Speciality? What’s that?” Greg asked eagerly, obviously hungry.

“Toasts,” John deadpanned, enjoying the sound of Greg’s hearty laughter.

 

“Yoohoo, boys? Are you decent?” Mrs Hudson called when they were clearing off the table of toast crumbs, spatters of jam and empty cups.

John looked at Greg and rolled his eyes.

“One day I’m gonna shriek we’re not just for the hell of it,” John muttered.

“I bet she’d walk in anyway,” Greg whispered before loudly greeting his landlady who beamed at him.

“Oh, John, I just wanted to warn you a journalist came by. I told her to bugger off, of course. It was that nasty one who started that whole thing with poor Sherlock.”

“Kitty Riley?” Greg asked somberly.

“That’s the one, dear. Honestly, what kind of a name is ‘Kitty’ anyway? How she expects to be taken seriously, I don't know. But you be careful, John. If she starts sniffing around here, I’m sure it won’t be long before she starts bothering you, too. No respect, those people, I tell you, no respect at all.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson. I’ll look out for her, I promise,” John said, cutting her off as soon as he could because it looked like she was ready to go on one of her very long and detailed rants. “Could you get me some milk if you go to the shops today?”

_ Diversion tactic number three: send her on a mission. _

“Of course, John. But just this once, mind,” she chirped and left after patting Greg’s arm affectionately.

_ Diversion tactic successful. _

John slumped back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. Why the hell was Kitty Riley sniffing around Baker Street again? Why now? Hadn’t she done enough damage already? Did she want to take down the blogger after she’d taken down the consulting detective?

“I’m sorry, John,” Greg said, crouching in front of his chair to look up at him with concern. “I think that’s my fault. I told her off yesterday after the press conference for being such a shitty journalist, and now she’s asking after you.”

Greg worried his lip, a deep furrow forming between his knitted brows.

“That’s okay, Greg. I’m sure she would have come by sooner or later anyway,” he replied with a weak smile, patting his shoulder.

Greg didn’t seem convinced, but he nodded and got up, pulling John out of his chair.

“Let’s go solve a murder,” Greg said with mock cheer, clapping his hands loudly, and John had to smile at that because it sounded so incongruous, and wouldn’t be anything to look forward to for most people but them.

“Let’s,” John agreed and his smile felt more genuine this time around.

 


	8. Ignorance is Bliss

Greg was so fucked. Figuratively speaking. He could see the chain of small, rather innocuous events leading up to the situation he was in now: from Sally’s offhand comment about the way he looked at John to seeking out John’s company more than he should, from his landlady slipping condoms into his pocket with a mischievous wink, to the rather erotic dream he’d had of John last night, from wanting to pull John into a hug whenever he directed that bright smile at him, to needing to embrace him protectively whenever the world tried to hurt him again… Yep, he was soooooo fucked. All of the above went way beyond simple friendship and he had to wonder when it had all started. Was that why he hadn’t been dating? Had he been pining after John all this time? Surely he would have realized it. Greg frowned in thought and took a deep breath of the humid London air while he tried to sort out his muddled emotions, but it was hard to pinpoint when friendship had tipped into something more. Not that he was going to act on it. John had enough on his plate as it was, and then there was the ghost of Sherlock Holmes still looming over the greeting man.

“Greg?”

“Yeah?” he replied absentmindedly, taking in John’s bemused expression.

“I asked if you wanted to get a few of these...rags,” John explained, pointing at the collection of newspapers in the newsstand, all of them displaying bold titles with too many exclamation marks like NEW TERROR HITS LONDON!!! or SERIAL KILLER ON THE LOOSE!!!!

Greg groaned, almost facepalmed, but that would demand too much effort for such rubbish.

“Might as well,” he said. “We can peruse them tonight, see if one of those gossip mongers blabs about the mysterious source that tipped them off.”

John smirked and took one of each while Greg paid the vendor who obviously recognized him and was almost bursting to ask him questions about the case, but wisely thought better of it at Greg’s somber look.

“You okay?” John asked. “You looked like you were miles away there.”

Greg hummed, wondering how not to answer that one. He wasn’t very good at lying to John. He neither liked nor wanted to lie to him, in fact.

“Didn’t sleep well,” he said, which was true, to some extent. “I’m too old to be sleeping on a sofa. Don’t know how you manage it.”

“I did try to wake you,” John said, his lips quirking upwards and making his damn heart stutter. Maybe he was just having tiny seizures. Medical condition, nothing to do with lust or love. Perfectly normal.“But you were completely out of it. You tried swatting me away like a bug,” he added with a laugh. “And I fit fine in that sofa. It’s not my fault everybody else is so overgrown.”

Greg stopped walking and looked down at John who tilted his head up questioningly, then Greg patted his fluffy head playfully, just because he could and knowing he was taking advantage of it but not caring one whit just then,  enjoying the contact instead.

“Sure,” Greg said, trying to keep a straight face. “It’s everyone else who’s grown too tall. You just keep telling yourself that.”

Then he burst out laughing while John swatted his arm away and stomped off towards Sommer’s house, the brother of their first victim.

 

ooo

 

“I don’t understand,” Mr Sommers said. “Why do you want to know the name of the detective who investigated Melissa’s disappearance?”

“As you know, your brother’s file was purged, completely. We’re just following up leads.”

The man looked mutinous. He obviously didn’t want to help them catch his brother’s murderer.

“I don’t remember,” he finally said when the silence stretched on for too long. An easy but efficient interrogation technique. “Something foreign. If his name wasn’t in the box I gave you, then I don’t know it.”

Greg looked for any sign of dishonesty from the man but he seemed sincere.

“I know,” came a timid voice from the doorway.

“Emily,” Mr Sommers said, disapproval and weariness thick in his voice. “How many times do I have to tell you not to eavesdrop?”

A young girl walked in with timid steps. Greg was shocked by her resemblance to the picture of Melissa they’d found in the box: same chestnut hair and same golden brown eyes, except hers looked immensely sad. No dimpled smile to be seen either. Her father sighed and introduced her as Melissa’s elder sister.

“The detective gave me his card,” she explained. “He was nice... reminded me of grandpa. He said he was worried for me and that if I needed anything, if I needed to talk or if I was afraid, I should call him.”

Her father grimaced.

“And did you?” Greg asked pleasantly so as not to spook her off.

Emily nodded, then glanced at her father, evidently not wanting to say whatever had happened in front of him.

“Nobody will be upset, Emily,” Greg promised with a warning look in her father’s direction. The man nodded, but had a fierce expression on his face.

“People were bothering me when I went back to school,” she said with a small voice. “They asked all sorts of questions about Melly… I- I ran away from school once, and then I was scared I’d get in trouble with everyone and I’d kept the card on me all the time like he told me to, so I called him, and he came and got me and took me back to school.”

Greg nodded and said that was alright, that she did the right thing, which prompted her to continue.

“I call him on Melly’s birthday too,” she said and sniffled, fat tears suddenly gathering in her eyes when she turned towards her father. “Because you and mom act like she never existed, even on her birthday and I wanted someone to know it was her birthday so I called him.”

“Oh, Emily,” her father breathed out and gathered his daughter in his arms, apologizing as he patted her long hair. “I didn’t know, Emily, I’m sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn’t think… We’ll celebrate it this year, okay? We can do that, you can talk to us, to me and mom, okay?”

The girl nodded and wiped at her eyes fiercely as if she was offended tears had dared show up in front so many people. She was a fierce little lady for her age and Greg smiled at her encouragingly.

“Can I see his card, sweetheart? I’ll give it right back,” he promised.

Emily nodded and took out a thin wallet from her jean’s pocket, pushing aside her transport and ID card before pulling out a worn card from the back and presenting it reverently to him. Greg blanched as he read the name but quickly composed himself and thanked Emily and her father for their time. Mr Sommers walked them back to the door, but followed them outside and stopped Greg.

“Does he have anything to do with Mark’s death,” he asked.

“I hope not,” Greg said honestly. “As I said, we’re just investigating every lead we have for now, gathering information, that sort of thing. It’s probably nothing.”

“Well, if you see him, could you thank him for me? And say I’m sorry? I’ve treated him rather badly when that bastard was released… I blamed him. I know it wasn’t his fault, he worked very hard to find Melissa and arrest him, I know, but I was so angry…”

“I’m sure he knows that,” Greg replied. “But I’ll tell him if I see him. You take good care of Emily.”

Mr Sommers gave a terse nod, both an acknowledgement and a goodbye, then hurried back inside while Greg and John walked back to the car in silence.

“You know him, don’t you?" John asked in the privacy of the vehicle. "The DI who was in charge of Melissa’s case?”

Greg nodded, letting his head fall back against the seat's head rest as he sighed.

“Ben Bartolomeo. He retired a few years ago, probably right after this case, but he was one of the best detectives I’ve ever worked with. Took me under his wing when I was little more than a rookie myself, taught me the ropes and how to fight dirty. Taught me how to swear in italian too, although that hasn’t been as useful as I thought it would be.”

“Do you think he worked on the other cases?”

Greg shrugged. He couldn’t imagine Old Benny being involved in any way in the string of murders committed by the Fury, but he had to check it out anyway, if only to rule out the possibility and find out what he knew about the victims.

“Only one way to find out,” he concluded.

Unfortunately, the widow’s lawyer as well as the embezzler’s wife confirmed his old mentor had been the one investigating their cases too. Greg really didn’t like where this was going, but he had to take the next logical step which was paying Ben himself a visit, thing he hadn’t done in quite a while, not since he'd retired, but Greg doubted the old man had moved and he was proved right by the name on the letterbox.

“It doesn’t mean it’s him,” John said, catching his arm just as he was about to get out of the car. “You know that, right?”

Greg grimaced. Sherlock always said there was no such things as coincidences and he was rarely wrong. Ben had been the lead investigator in all three cases and they could probably put his whole team of that time on their list of suspects too, but all parties involved remembered how relentless Ben had been about their cases, Sommers in a good way, Hill and Leland... not so much, but seeing as they had been suspects and not victims, it wasn't all that surprising.

Greg nodded at John, fighting the urge to lean into his touch and missing the contact when he let go of his arm. On top of everything else, he was starting to hate himself for pining after his friend. He wished Sally had never pointed out his infatuation to him.

Greg sighed and got out of the car, grinning despite himself when he saw a familiar wrinkled face peering out of the window of the small house. Greg knocked on the door, John close behind and his jaw almost dropped when Ben opened… from his wheelchair. He looked back at John, who raised his eyebrows and gave a discreet thumbs up before shooing him in. Greg knew he shouldn't be happy about Ben being in a wheelchair but that definitely ruled him out as a suspect. Sommers place was inaccessible by wheelchair and he would have been seen at Hills and Leland's residences. Wheelchairs weren't exactly furtive and Ben's squealed a lot whenever he moved. It would make the conversation to come a lot less awkward.

They made small talk for a while, catching up, before Greg broached the subject by passing on Mr Sommers’ message and then told him how they'd come to be here.

"You know I'd plead guilty to help you out, kiddo," Ben joked. "But as you can see, I've been a bit tied down lately. Can't even take a proper dump on my own."

Greg almost spit his tea back out.

"I see old age hasn't mellowed your tongue either."

"Just calling it as it is. So, how can I help you?"

"Know anyone on your team who worked all the cases with you?" Greg asked. "Hate to ask, but-"

Ben raised his shaky hands to cut off his excuses.

"I get it, and any other copper would too," Ben said, then seemed to think back as he quieted for a bit, looking much more frail when he wasn’t blustering about. “There was my second, of course. You remember Carl?”

Greg nodded, but that name was no use as the man had died in the line of duty since.

“Then there was Hannah, I remember because she was such a help, bright little thing. And Henry was on forensics back then. Uhm, it’s a bit difficult to remember who else, to be honest. It was a long time ago but there were probably other officers on all three scenes.”

“Of course,” Greg said. “You’ve already been a huge help. Well, I’d better get going, it’s not going to solve itself-”

“And I bet the DCI is being a whiny little bitch,” Ben added with a wicked smile.

“Exactly.”

 

Greg thought he’d feel relieved once he’d eliminated his old mentor from the list of suspects, but he only felt uneasy, as if he’d missed something obvious, something he should have seen, something Sherlock would have pointed out was “obvious”, but Greg wasn’t a frigging genius so he would just have to continue with the investigation the old fashioned way. But first…

“Fancy a bite to eat before we head back to the Yard?” he asked John who nodded.

And that’s how he got to take John Watson out on a date, even if only one of the two participants thought of it as such. He was definitely stepping into the creepy zone.

 


	9. Even Soldiers Fear

John spied Greg over his cup of coffee while he poured over a file and muttered under his breath. He’d seemed a bit off today, but that could be for any number of reasons, not least of which was having to drag his old mentor into an ongoing, high-profile murder case. They’d ruled the old man out as a suspect, of course. John had even gone so far as to discretely check the soles of the old man’s shoes to make sure he was really stuck in a wheelchair and not faking it, an old trick Sherlock had taught him and had often despaired about not having been able to use to convict someone. But the retired DI’s shoes had been unscuffed and there was even the residue of the price tag still stuck there, torn off but not very neatly. Definitely disabled, and thus, impossible for him to climb through windows and avoid CCTVs like a bloody ninja. But there was something there. He was the only link between the three victims, so Greg had reluctantly put his old mentor on surveillance, because that was his job, whether he liked it or not.

That done, they found themselves locked in Greg’s office with files of the New Scotland Yard staff, trying to locate who’d worked where and when, and how to contact them today. They’d easily found Hannah and Henry, who both had ironclad alibis, Hannah living abroad and Henry having died in a car accident, but the former had given several more names of people she thought had worked on those cases with her. Greg’s old mentor had been right, she really was a “bright little thing”.

But, much later, Greg placed another call and crossed off the last name on the list.

“That’s it, then?” John asked, deflated. “All that work and we have nothing to show for it?”

Greg shook the now useless list in front of their noses.

“Not so, not so,” he said with mock cheer. “We’ve got this many less suspects.”

“There is such a thing as being too optimistic,” John replied, setting his coffee back down, it was terrible stuff in any case.

“Found anything interesting in the newspapers yet?” Greg asked with a jerk of his head towards the messy pile John had been sifting through.

“Define ‘interesting’,” John teased, because the articles he’d read about their serial killer were bad, mostly made up of far-fetched theories and speculations. Some even seemed to pull made-up information out of a magical hat like rabbits. And he’d thought Kitty Riley was bad.

“So, no,” Greg concluded.

“Well, there is this one who claims the killer is a vigilante, which is disturbingly close to our Fury theory, but he only bases that on the fact that Leland has ruined so many people’s lives and ‘deserved it’, so the other two probably deserved it too.”

“Jesus,” Greg exclaimed, appalled. “What paper did you find that in? That’s not even journalism! It's... gossiping, at best.”

John held up the front page for Greg to see and he snorted.

“Okay, that would explain it.”

“And then, there are the nicknames. I think this one is going to win,” John announced and held up another paper.

“The Weeper? That doesn’t even make sense, it’s his victims that have bloody tears, not him. Well, not that we know of anyway...”

“Yes, but it is rather catchy. It’s a sight better than the New-Ripper, that’s just baiting the readers, or The Punisher, which I’m pretty sure is a comic book hero.”

There was a knock at the door, which opened before Greg could respond, and Donovan walked in as if she owned the place, then froze when she saw John. John witnessed the strangest exchange between the two Yarders: Donovan raised her eyebrows at Greg and had a frankly disturbing smile stretching across her face, while Greg glowered at her and shook his head very minutely.

“No missing venom stocks,” Donovan finally said when the weird silence had stretched on for much too long. “But an exotic pet shop reported a break in a few weeks back.”

“Let me guess,” Greg replied. “The thief made off with a cobra and a viper?”

“Right in one, here are the details. It’s a specialized shop a few streets down, on Palmer,” she said tossing a slim file on the desk between them, and then just stood there.

“Thank you, Sally,” Greg said pointedly, scowling at her when she didn't go away and loomed over the desk to smirk at him. “You can  _ leave _ now.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t want to  _ interrupt, _ ” she replied and left, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

“What’s wrong with her?” John asked once the door was firmly shut behind her.

“Women,” Greg muttered and checked his watch. “Who the hell knows what goes on in their heads? So... Want to go check out the shop before we call it a day? It’s really not too far from here.”

“Good idea,” John said, getting up and stretching his sore muscles. They’d spent most of the day pouring over dusty files and newspapers so he could do with a bit of fresh air. “Have to confess I hate those creepers though.”

“What? Snakes?” Greg asked with disbelief. “Have I finally found Captain John Watson’s kryptonite?”

“Noooo...” John drew out uncertainly as he narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Well… maybe. But if you tell anyone, I will have to kill you.”

“Ah, can’t have that, it would be chaos in London without me. I’ll just have to take your secret to the grave.”

John slapped his arm playfully and they left the Yard, Greg easily leading him through backstreets until they reached a shop he’d never seen before but that had a disgustingly realistic snake on display outside where a simple picture, or better yet, just a written sign, would have been more than enough. John shuffled in front of the shop but straightened his spine when he heard Greg snigger.

"It's not funny," John whined, hating that his own voice had betrayed him.

No choice. He shoved passed Greg and pushed the shop door open, just to prove he wasn't a coward, but immediately recoiled at a hissing sound that was much too close for his taste, making him step back smack into Greg who held him tight to stop him from falling.

"Easy there," he chuckled and helped steady him on his feet. "Just stay close and if a snake happens to be wandering around, I promise to take the bite for you."

John's lips drew in a thin line of disapproval, not sure if he was being mocked or not.

"I'll have you know those... things... They escape their... aquariums... tanks, whatever those glass things are... all the time!" John hissed, looking warily at the rows of hissing, coiling, oh-god-that-one-was-eating, snakes of all sizes and colours. "I read an article just yesterday where a snake in a pet shop bit it's carer, almost killing him by the way, and then escaped into the flower shop next door to have a nap! Those things are evil, Greg! Pure evil! They don't even have legs, that's so unnatural, and they're all slythery..."

John knew he was going into hysterics, but all the hissing around him was driving him crazy, drilling irrational fear straight into his brain. Even Greg looked more worried than amused now, and he kept a strong grip on his upper arms to keep him steady, keeping eye-contact with him so he wouldn’t look at the spawns from hell.

"Maybe you should wait outside. I won't be long," he promised, trying to push him back towards the entrance, but John shook his head.

"I'm not leaving you," he replied with fierce determination. "Rule number one: Never go anywhere without backup."

Well, they were rules he’d made up with Sherlock when they were on a case, but they applied just the same while he was investigating with Greg. The dangers were the same, and John wanted to keep him safe from harm, although Greg certainly wasn’t as reckless as Sherlock had been. Greg blinked owlishly at him, then, for lack of a better word, tucked him under his arm and steered them to the back of the shop where the counter was. John stiffened at first at being treated like he needed protection, feeling stupid for his irrational fear, but then, he realized he felt serene, for the first time in months, in over a year. For once, he didn't have to pretend that he was alright or that he was strong. It was alright to be afraid because Greg was there to look after him, to be strong for him. John let that feeling wash over him. It felt foreign but nice, liberating, and John thought he could get used to it. He found himself leaning even more into Greg, as if he could acquire more of that feeling, be drunk on it until everything, yes, even snakes, felt right and safe and wonderful again.

He realized he had completely blanked out the whole interview of the shop owner when he found himself out in the street again, with no snakes in sight except the fake one on that godawful sign, but looking into Greg's dark, worried eyes, and missing the warmth of his body while the other man held him by the shoulders, shaking him slightly and saying...something. His lips were moving, so he was probably saying something. John focused on that.

"John," Greg said and snapped his fingers right in front of his nose. "Damnit John! If you don't snap out of it, I swear I'm taking you to the A&E."

"What? No!" John protested.

"Finally!" Greg exclaimed before wrapping his arms around him and hugging the life out of him. "You scared the hell out of me! You should have said it was that bad, I never would have-"

"I didn't know," John blurted out because the last thing he wanted was to hear his friend blame himself for anything, but Greg’s face told him he didn't believe him for a second. "I mean, I did know I'm a bit scared of-"

"Terrified," Greg corrected sternly, finally letting go of him, checking he wasn't about to keel over before taking a step back.

John immediately missed the contact. How long had he been without simple human contact? He couldn't recall... Too long. He missed it.

"Alright, alright," John continued. "So I knew I was  _ terrified  _ of snakes, but I've only ever seen them one at a time before, and I could deal fine with it then. So, in there, I was a bit... overwhelmed. I'm sorry. I should have anticipated. Do you need to go back?"

Greg shook his head, all sorts of emotions flickering across his face, too fast to identify.

"Thank God," John breathed out with relief, his whole body slouching, suddenly exhausted.

"I'm taking you back home," Greg announced with a voice that brooked no argument and in an instant he had him in a cab and on their way to Baker Street. Home.

 

Mrs Hudson fussed over John when they got back, but, true to his word, Greg did not say why he was so out of sorts, keeping his secret fear to himself. He even managed to shoo her out gently, which was quite a feat.

“I think she likes you,” John said conversationally but got an unintelligible mumble in reply. “Tea?”

“Sure, could use a cuppa before I go back myself,” Greg answered.

John’s heart sank. He didn’t know why he’d expected Greg to stay over again. Maybe he’d just gotten used to it and thought… but no, that was silly. Greg had his own place and he probably badly needed to return for a change of suits. John couldn’t be dependant on the guy, for Christ’s sake. Greg had enough on his plate without having to be his bloody minder, or worse, given today's events, his safety blanket.

“Right,” John said, trying for a smile. “So what’s the plan for tomorrow? I don’t even know what happened in the shop, to be honest, I kind of blanked out.”

That got a smile out of Greg.

“Yeah, no kidding. I didn’t get much that could help us though. The store manager said the thief came in through a window in the back-alley, jammed it open with a crowbar if you can believe it, and then left through the back door, as easy as you please, with several snakes under his arm, not just the two we were looking for. I'll give you the list. The manager reckons he had them in special bags made of fabric, it’s the easiest way to transport snakes. Unfortunately, that means nobody would have looked twice. Gotta admit whoever it was has got some nerve.”

“Well, you can rule me out of your list of suspects,” John teased. “One down, eight and half a million to go.”

“On the bright side, our serial killer seems to have gone on a break. That’s two days without us finding a body now, so the DCI is cutting me some slack, even though I haven’t got an inkling of a suspect.”

John mulled the case over for the umpteenth time while he stirred the milk into Greg’s tea and handed it to him before absent mindedly doing his own. It couldn’t be a coincidence that DI Bartolomeo was linked to all three cases, there had to be something there, but John couldn’t see it. Sherlock would, no doubt… John found himself staring at the skull on the chimney, wondering if it would help him if he talked to the thing. He remembered he’d had long discussions with it on many a drunken night, but those had definitely not helped.

This case was a puzzle, a complicated one, mixing past and present, and with a strange theatrical intent to the murders. Sherlock would have definitely loved it. Might even have rated it a nine. But, unless the murderer made a mistake, they probably didn’t stand a chance at solving it, which made him feel bad for Greg.

“Should we go through Bartolomeo’s old cases, see if anyone there fits the victim’s profile? We might find the Fury’s next target.”

“Don’t forget files could be purged, we only got his name by interrogating the families.”

“Right. I really feel like we’re missing something here.”

“You’re telling me,” Greg said somberly. “Well, I’d better get going. You’ll be okay, yeah?”

John nodded. He knew he wouldn’t sleep, not in the empty flat and not after the snakes… John hid the shudder that ran through him and smiled pleasantly at his friend.

“Call me if you need me,” Greg added and grabbed his overnight bag he’d left by the door. “Or if you get another brilliant idea,” he added with a wink and was gone.

Had the silence in the flat always been this deafeningly loud? John paced the living room, his steps echoing on the hard wooden floorboards, the familiar creaks resonating… Oh, so it had. He’d just gotten used to Greg’s comforting company. The man managed to effortlessly fill the space and silence with his calm presence, where Sherlock used to fill it with his haphazard bursts of energy and crashes into sullen sulks. They were polar opposites now that he thought about it: the drama queen and the steady rock.

Well, if he wasn’t going to sleep anyway, he might as well look the case over from the beginning.

  
  



	10. A Friendly Warning

Greg felt a bit cowardly fleeing as he did from Baker Street, but if he hadn’t, he thought he might have done something stupid like hug John again, or maybe worse. He had no desire to have an awkward rejection flung his way like Sherlock had done with his “I’m married to my work, Detective Inspector, but thank you for your interest.” when he’d met the arrogant git. That had made him laugh at the time, because he had been happily married back then and had no interest whatsoever in Sherlock. However, that was not the case this time, Greg  _ was  _ interested in John, and hearing him say similar words to him would not only hurt, but probably damage their friendship and Greg valued that too much. However, in this case, John wasn’t so much married to his work as he was to a ghost.

In that instant, Greg really hated Sherlock. He wasn’t sure if he and John had ever been an item, but whether they had or not, jumping off a building and leaving John to suffer alone for it had been a bloody selfish thing to do.

Greg decided he just needed a little time and space to get his feelings for his friend back under control, but he found himself staring at the dark ceiling of his bedroom instead, wondering if John was sleeping. He hoped he wasn’t having nightmares about the snakes. Maybe he should have stayed, or at least gone back after getting a change of clothes from his drab apartment… Too late now, he couldn’t very well justify knocking on Baker Street’s door at… Greg turned his head to see the clock and it’s red digital numbers flashing in the semi-darkness: quarter past two. Bloody hell. He turned back on his side with a curse and forced himself to sleep and  _ not _ think about John.

At twenty past two, Greg shot up from under his blanket. What if John couldn’t sleep and decided to drink himself into a stupor again? Greg threw the sheets off his legs, then hesitated. No, he’d combed through the flat, there shouldn’t be a drop of alcohol available there and John wouldn’t go out this late to find his poison, or at least Greg didn’t think so. John had been doing better these last few days… But maybe only because Greg had been squatting Baker Street, day and night.

No, he’d have to trust John on this. He was strong-willed, he’d get through it. Greg pulled the sheets back over himself and tossed and turned most of the night, his slumber far from restful.

 

ooo

 

Greg almost bit Sally’s head off when she made a smarmy comment about him looking like he hadn’t slept all night. She backed off fast enough that her retreat made loose papers on the desks around flutter and fall gracefully to the floor in her wake.

He went to his own desk to take stock of the messages that had piled up for him since yesterday, throwing half of those away and deciding  Sally could deal with most of the others. He handed the slips of paper gleefully to her when she returned with a cup of coffee for him as a peace offering.

"No news from our Fury, I take it?" he asked her before she left again.

"None, I'm starting to think he may have tripped and fallen into the Thames. Good riddance."

Greg nodded and sorted through his mails next, which was like a never ending source of complaints and whining, most of them from people he'd never even heard of. He was about to delete the lot of it in one go out of sheer annoyance when one word stood out from the rest of the inane messages: FURY.

"Get me IT up here right  _ now _ !" he bellowed through his open doorway. "Not Andrews! Anyone but him!"

Andrews was his own personal nightmare in the whole of Scotland Yard. The man had almost managed to blow up his computer the last time he came to "fix it". He'd had the gall to blame Greg for it too. But this might be too important a piece of evidence to risk messing it up with incompetence.  The only people who knew about the Fury theory was him, his team and John. As far as he could discern from the sender's address, the sender wasn't one of them. John had a very sensible email address and the Yarders had an official one issued to them when they entered the force, so  _ thefuryunleashed@gotmail.com  _ was definitely not from someone he knew.

Greg didn’t know the woman who arrived, but she was “Jenny Atkins” from “IT” according to her badge, and she obviously knew how to handle a computer, without unnecessary chatter to boot, which was nice.

“Uhm… the mail is safe to open and I've already secured a copy. I’ll head back down to see if I can trace it back to anything interesting.”

And she was gone. Professional and to the point. Greg liked her already and he made a mental note to ask for her whenever his computer did the strange things it sometimes did without rhyme nor reason, forcing him to send an SOS down to IT on a regular basis.

Greg took his recently vacated chair and clicked on the email:

 

_ Friendly warning, DI Lestrade: back off. _

_ The Fury. _

 

Well, that was unexpected. Not sure what he was expecting but a friendly warning was not it. Coming from a serial killer, he'd expected some gloating or a sinister message of deaths to come. As it was, the message didn't help him all that much except to say their killer was literate enough to use punctuation correctly, even by email. A rarity nowadays.

But why "back off"? Did that mean he'd actually gotten anywhere? So close to the culprit, he'd felt the need to warn him off? Greg checked the time it had been sent: around eight last night, which didn't help any since he'd already been by the shop at that hour. The Fury was annoyingly clever, but John would be smugly happy to know his theory on the killer was proved correct by the source itself:  a Fury, a vengeful god, and Greg was the one who had to stop him.

He took out his phone. He'd wanted to send John a message earlier, but the words he had wanted to type all sounded overly clingy and sappy. But now, he had a perfectly valid reason to contact him.

 

**Mail from "The Fury" warning me to back off. We must have done something right yesterday. Any clue what? -G**

 

Greg crossed his fingers, hoping John would answer promptly and intelligibly, which would mean he was not hungover or worse, still drunk. However, instead of the expected text, his phone rang in his hand.

"Greg? You alright?" John asked before he could even greet him.

"Yes," he replied, bemused as well as relieved because John was completely sober. "That's really all there is to the mail. Not even one little threat of maiming or serious injury. I feel insulted."

Greg read it to him and then pointed out John had been right about the killer's mythological inspiration.

"It didn't help much in the end though, but you're right about the warning, we must have come close to him if he felt threatened enough to send you that mail," John replied, sounding less concerned than he'd been at first and then plain out  _ yawning _ into the phone and mumbling an apology.

"John... Did you sleep at all last night?" Greg asked, already knowing the answer.

"I didn't drink," came the defensive reply.

"I know. You're doing well. Was it... You know... Your kryptonite?"

John chuckled.

"In part, yes. I swear I could heard the slimy monsters hissing through the walls last night, it was driving me crazy. I might not have your back after all if you insist on going there again, by the way. But I'm sure it'll pass tonight. I'll probably be too exhausted to even care.”

Greg silently berated himself. He shouldn't have left. He wanted to say something to cheer John up when Sally reappeared with a scowl.

"Gotta go," Greg said regretfully.

"Yeah, go save the world, but be careful, okay?" 

Greg tried not to smile, he really did, but it was a lost cause and Sally saw it.

"How's Watson?" she asked smugly.

"I don't know what you're talking about. What's with the face?" he demanded, mimicking her previous grimace.

"I.T. can't retrace the sender of that mail. Just another dead end."

"Suspected as much. The Fury is far from stupid."

Sally shifted on her feet and closed the door. Greg gulped. She wasn't going to lecture him about John now, was she?

"It's never good when a serial killer starts communicating with the person investigating his case, you know that, right? They develop a sort of sick obsession," she said, sounding almost as concerned as John had a few minutes ago. "I think you should pass the case on to someone else... Gregson maybe?"

"Not bloody likely, Donovan!" he exclaimed, vaguely aware that the closed doors had done nothing to diminish his outburst since he could see several heads turn their way through the half drawn blinds.

"Didn't think so," she admitted with a shrug. "But you should, at the very least, always have someone with you.  And I don't mean a  _ civilian _ ," she added pointedly. 

Greg nodded. He could concede that much at least, but Sally wasn't finished.

"And have someone keep an eye on your place when you're there. The last thing we want is the lead inspector being found like the other victims."

"No," Greg said, brooking no argument. "There's no way I'm letting some poor sod keep watch at all hours of the night for a nonexistent threat. I only received a 'friendly warning' in case you've forgotten, not a death threat."

"Yes. But you're not going to back off, are you?" she said, worrying her bottom lip.

"'Course not," he replied cheerfully. "So I'll get an  _ unfriendly _ warning. Big deal."

Sally didn't see the humour in that and she huffed, tapped her foot impatiently then put her hands on her hips in a "I'm tired of your shenanigans" attitude that only amused Greg more.

"You know, you'll make a fine DI one of these days," he said and enjoyed her blush for a moment because it was a rare enough sight. Then, he sent her off to find the forensic's report on Mrs Hill. The scratch the victim had caused had given nothing conclusive in the end, but he wanted to check whether anything else had been tampered with by the killer in an effort to clean the traces he could have left. He was more bothered than he cared to admit that their serial killer seemed to know exactly how their forensics operated and never left any clue for them to pick up, not even a goddamned hair or footprint. That could mean he either worked in forensics himself or was a copper, or, as Greg already knew, that he was simply too fucking clever. He hated clever criminals, those were the ones who ruined the rare weekends he got.

 

ooo

 

Nothing. Greg was damn sick and tired of getting nowhere with this case. He should just throw it on the cold pile and be done with it, because he didn't have an inkling of what his next step should be. The only thing that kept him from doing just that was the mail he'd gotten from the Fury. If the killer wanted him to back off, the probability that it was because he was not done with his "work" was horrifyingly high, and there was nothing quite so terrible about his job than knowing someone was going to get killed, and worse, knowing exactly how, but being completely powerless to stop it. It made him want to tear his hair out. 

That afternoon, he was called on a new crime scene, a "simple" domestic disturbance that had turned ugly as soon as the police had arrived, alerted by the neighbours. It was an open and shut case: witnesses, evidence, even a full confession from the husband. His presence was hardly necessary but there wasn't much else he could do anyway at Scotland Yard, and the Fury case was at a standstill. Not to mention that everywhere he turned, Sally was there, peering from the shadows like some creepy guardian angel. Every time he told her to knock it off, that nothing was going to happen to him, she got this pinched expression that inevitably turned mutinous and she'd just glare at him, which was even more distracting.

"Sir? We have another call if you're available," a young officer said, still holding his radio, awaiting his answer to inform dispatch.

Greg glanced up at the rainy sky, wondering why Londoners had decided to be in such a murderous mood today. He flicked a droplet of water off his forehead and muttered: 

"Why the hell not?"

That way, he would feel like he was doing  _ something _ , even it wasn't catching the Fury.


	11. Terrible Bedside Manners

There were days that were not worth getting up for, and John hadn’t even slept to begin with that night. Bloody snakes. So, when it was late enough that he wouldn’t wake Mrs Hudson, John got dressed and went out in the chilly, foggy morning, walking at a brisk pace to Tesco for some much needed groceries. In the eventuality Greg did come around again, it would be nice if he could offer him some fresh milk and biscuits with his tea. He deserved that much at least. Maybe something for dinner too, and breakfast… Just in case. His cupboards were empty, even more so since Greg’s great bottle purge, so he might as well fill them up again, and with proper food this time. On his way back, he almost wished Mycroft had come by in his black kidnap car so he’d hitch a free ride back. Almost. But John counted himself lucky that one of the bags he was carrying waited until he was only a few feet away from his front door to break and spill its contents everywhere. Someone rushed towards him to help pick up his escaped oranges and he was about to thank his good samaritan when he froze at the sight of Kitty Riley.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” John muttered, snatching his fruit back.

“Dr Watson, please. I just want to talk to you.”

“And what? Make up a sordid story to sell your blasted paper? You can go to hell and burn there, you don’t deserve any better.”

The journalist looked taken aback, which made John chuckle coldly. Honestly, what did she expect? He turned around and started back towards home, ready to forget  the whole encounter.

“I can’t find him!”

“What?” John asked, confused.

He turned back around to see Riley, usually so combative with her chin stuck out in defiance, looked about to have a nervous breakdown. If it was an act, she was damn convincing. The woman was trembling, her eyes glistening and she was biting her bottom lip. John sighed. He knew she deserved whatever had put her in such a state but - and Sherlock would berate him for what he was about to do - John couldn’t in all conscience let a woman collapse into a sobbing mess in the middle of the street and not do anything about it. So he held out one of his shopping bags.

“Are you going to help me or not?”

Riley wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her too tight vest and nodded, taking half his bags and walking meekly beside him in silence. John was glad he didn’t meet Mrs Hudson in the entrance because he wasn’t sure how to explain the woman’s presence. Once they were in the flat, John put the groceries away but kept a close eye on Riley who was looking curiously at the messy flat.

“Sit,” John ordered, pointing at the kitchen chair. 

He didn’t want her in the living-room where there was so much of Sherlock everywhere, as well as details on the Fury case strewn about. A bit unorthodox, but thankfully, she didn't protest. 

“Who can’t you find?” he asked but the answer came to him before she could gather her wits. “Moriarty. Your Richard Brook, is that it?”

“Richard Brook, yes,” she confessed, twisting the fabric of her tweed skirt. “But not just him... If it was just him, there could be any number of reasons for his disappearance. I tried tracking him down, using the contacts of the people he’d introduced me to, his friends, his colleagues… there’s no one left. Everything… Everything was fake and everything disappeared with him. He- He never existed, did he?”

She looked pleadingly at him, but John couldn’t keep the cold hatred from showing.

“Oh, but he did. The best lies are wrapped in layers of truth or haven’t you learned your lesson yet? Richard Brook and James Moriarty, one and the same, and both exist. Richard Brook by day, small time actor, Jim Moriarty by night, dangerous consulting criminal. You had enough evidence to prove Brook existed and was what he claimed, a perfect cover, but if you try to look at the big picture, you’ll find his life is riddled with holes where his alter-ego took over. You only have so much time after all.”

Riley was looking at him wide-eyed. John couldn’t take credit for his information. Even though he’d managed to piece a few things together, Mycroft had given him the big picture shortly after the funeral. For what purpose, John didn’t know because it most certainly hadn’t helped deal with the grief to know that Moriarty had been an even more formidable opponent than he’d first thought.

“If you really want to start unravelling the whole story, Miss Riley, you should start with the Reichenbach case.”

“The stolen painting? Why? Because it’s the case that made Holmes’s reputation?”

“No,” John said with a scowl. “Because Reichenbach is german for Richard Brook.”

Riley’s face illuminated with realization. It was quite comical to see the shift from one extreme to the other and his own face had probably done something similar when Mycroft had explained it to him, but this was as far as he was willing to go. He’d given the woman something to hang onto so she wouldn’t break down and blame herself for Sherlock’s death. She’d only been a tool to Moriarty after all, just like everyone else had. Even him. After that, John sent her away before she tried doing something stupid like apologize or make promises, because that would only make him angry again when he’d only just let go of another chunk of his resentment. He still had his hatred for Anderson to deal with, but he might hold on to that. Sherlock would approve.

However awful the day had started, dealing with insomnia, breaking grocery bags and a nosy journalist, it wasn’t the worse part of his day. Greg texted him later that morning to tell him he’d been threatened by the Fury. John felt the cold sweat of dread run down his back and he fumbled with his phone to call him back. It turned out to not be as dire as he’d feared, but then Greg had to hang up before he could ask if he’d see him after work.

_ Don’t be so needy _ , he berated himself, then waited for the next disaster of the day to happen.

 

ooo

 

John stared at the unknown number flashing on his phone screen. He hadn't the foggiest who it could possibly be, but, on the grounds that there was a very small chance it might be important, or maybe even urgent, he dropped the stack of sticky notes he’d been painstakingly applying to the board and took the mysterious call.

"Hello?" he ventured.

"Doctor Watson?" came a woman's confident voice in reply.

It was vaguely familiar but he couldn't place it with certainty.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Sally. Donovan."

John's mood immediately plummeted, because he still despised her, just a bit, and then he reached near panic when he wondered  _ why _ she was calling.

"Is Greg alright? Did something happen to him?"

"Not exactly. I had to send him home. It looks like he was coming down with a fever so I told him to go see a doctor, but… you know him…  He probably just went right back home and crashed in bed without getting out of his wet clothes."

John had so many questions he didn't know where to begin: How did you get my number? Why are you calling me? Why didn't Greg call me? But his mind latched onto the last.

"Wet clothes?"

"Crime scene in a back alley and it’s pouring outside in case you hadn’t noticed, even the umbrellas were not much help. I hate to ask, but would you mind checking up on him? If I go, he'll just order me out again, but he can't do that with you."

"Sure," John replied immediately, not thinking twice about it. To be honest, he was a bit angry Greg hadn't called or come straight here to him. "Wait! I don't know where he lives, I've never been there."

"No?" Donovan asked, sounding genuinely surprised, but she gave him his address without hesitation and thanked him before hanging up. 

John looked at his phone, torn between feeling grateful and angry at the woman. She was just that annoying, and yet she was looking out for Greg, which he appreciated since the man probably had no one else to do that for him. Without losing any more time, John stuffed a bag with his rather extensive first aid kit. He glanced at the board detailing the Fury case he’d been working on and flipped it around, then left in a hurry. Pouring didn't even begin to describe the buckets of water falling from the sky. The streets were already overflowing as the sewers couldn't drain all the excess water, and John had to run to the tube after he'd gotten soaked over twice trying to hail a cab. He needn't even worry looking like a drowned puppy because everyone huddled in the underground and the tube was in just as sorry a state. Men with their clothes sticking uncomfortably to their bodies and women with their makeup and hair streaking down their faces. Good thing it was spring and the temperatures weren’t so low, or everyone there would be freezing to death. John almost regretted arriving at his stop because that meant he had to step into the deluge again. He might as well have gone out in his swimming trunks at the rate this was going. His coat was heavy with all the rain it had absorbed and his shoes squeaked and squelched with every step. Finally, he arrived at the address Donovan had given him and he recognized Greg’s block-lettered LESTRADE. He pressed the doorbell once, then twice, before someone huddled in the doorway next to him, pushing him out of the way with an apology, before opening the door for the both of them. John thanked him and walked up to the second floor where the nice neighbour had said Greg lived. He found the same block letters next to the buzzer, but didn't need to use it as the door was slightly ajar.

Dread and fear bubbled up. 

_ No, not again.  _

If anything had happened to Greg, if the Fury had hurt him... John would never be able to go on, not so soon after Sherlock. John muzzled his rising fear with the sheer force of will he’d acquired from his tours in Afghanistan and pushed the door open wider, spying for any activity as it swung inwards. Nothing. John cursed meddling-Mycroft for having confiscated his gun and stepped into Greg's flat, dark and quiet, nothing out of place save for a trail of water drops, puddles even, that lead to the back of the flat. He dropped his bag quietly and grabbed a golf club that was sticking out of the umbrella stand for some reason, before moving forward. Dark empty living room, dark empty kitchen, dark... not empty bedroom. A mass there on the bed. An unmoving mass. John dropped the club on the carpet and rushed forward.

"Greg!"

Hot, clammy skin. Thank God! A pulse! Steady, strong! He was just sleeping.

"You idiot," John said, relieved beyond measure as he sagged against the bed, feeling a hysteric giggle building in his throat. "You complete and utter moron. Who leaves their door open when they’re being threatened by a serial killer?"

"John?" Greg asked, his voice little more than a croak. John would bet his good shoulder the idiot had hardly drank anything all day, just to make matters worse. "You a hallucination?"

John smiled because what else could you respond to that.

"What if I say yes?"

“Best ‘llucination ever,” Greg mumbled and closed his eyes again. “Don’t feel so good.”

“You don’t look all that good either,” John said crossly.

Donovan had guessed right: Greg had literally just walked over to his bed and crashed there, head first, without taking off his clothes, or even his shoes, and everything was damp, having started to dry on him, or still dripping in places. Not that John was any better. So, to avoid getting Greg more wet than he already was, John rapidly divested himself of most of his own sodden clothes, down to his briefs and tee shirt although those were damp as well and would have to go soon. But first, Greg.

John took advantage that he was on his stomach to get rid of his long trench coat first, wrestling it off his limp arms, soon followed by his vest. Greg was completely unhelpful, muttering something into the mattress. Then, John had to flip him over, which was more of a roll over, to be honest, but in John’s defense, Greg was taller and heavier than him. A difference which was only made worse because he was being so uncooperative.

Shoes, socks, tie… John climbed halfway on the bed to undo Greg’s shirt buttons when the man started to come round again, but only to swat his hands away.

“Stop it, Greg. I have to get you out of your clothes, whether you like it or not,” he said, getting two more buttons undone before his hands were pushed out of the way again.

“John?” he mumbled.

“Still here," he replied softly. "Can you help me out with-" and Greg was out again. 

Not really surprising with his fever. It was running high and he was half delirious, his eyes glazed over and unfocused the few times he'd opened them. A miracle he'd recognised him at all. John tugged the shirt out of his pants, then pulled it open and found himself gawking at the sight before him.

"Well, aren't you a hairy beast?" he breathed out, staring longer than he should at the vast expanse of chest covered in fine silvery hair. 

Highly unprofessional behaviour for a doctor, barely justifiable for a friend. John shook his head, clearing his thoughts and went right back to business. 

"Right, sorry about this, Greg, but I'm going to take your pants off now. Probably not how you expected to end your day," John babbled as he undid belt, button and fly, feeling a bit flushed, which was ridiculous, but John was having some difficulties switching to doctor mode since Greg was such a close friend. And a rather attractive one to boot.

Right. Not going there. No, no, no. Your  _ straight _ friend needs help, not someone ogling him like a piece of meat. But it was good to know he still had a libido. John took a deep breath and pulled Greg's trousers and briefs off in one go since both were soaked through, struggling a bit at the hips and bum. Not looking, definitely not looking. That done, John rolled him under the sheets, taking off the damp topmost blanket he'd dripped on and foraging in the cupboards for a dry one.

Finally, Greg was as dry and comfortable as he could make him so John took a few minutes to find dry clothes for himself. The result was... not flattering. Greg's borrowed tee shirt and track pants were much too big for his frame and he felt dwarfed in them, but they were warm and comfortable so it would have to do. That done, he checked on Greg, taking his temperature: still too high, but the man slept like a log and could not be roused to take some medicine or even drink a little, so John did what he could and stayed by his side, wiping his forehead with a cool washcloth now and then, checking his temperature every hour or so. It was definitely going down, slowly but surely. He’d probably just overworked himself and would simply sleep it off. He hadn't ever seen him be sick before as a matter of fact. Reassured, John left the bedroom in search of the sofa in the early hours of the morning. He pulled the throw blanket over himself and was out like a light.

 

ooo

 

A warm touch, gentle and caring. John leaned into it greedily, craving human contact the way mold did humidity.

"Mold?" came a gruff voice, so very close he thought he could touch the word if he only managed to lift his hand, but he was so heavy, his whole body was.

"John?"

John followed the voice. He liked that voice. It was calling to him, wanting him awake. Did that mean he was sleeping? In danger? Danger! John's eyes shot open and he was sitting bolt upright in an instant.

"It's a bit scary the way you do that, you know?" Greg chided. "You okay?"

John glanced at the foreign surroundings, at Greg, naked from the waist up, at the phone he was clutching in his hand. John nodded towards it.

"Fury?" 

Greg nodded, all trace of humour leaving his face.

"Yes, they found another body. Want to come along?"

John nodded eagerly. He'd hated having been banned on account of the press but if they showed up again, he was quite sure he'd manage another escape. Seeing the crime scene was vital, especially a new one after the killer had inexplicably remained absent for-

"Three days," John muttered.

"Yeah, figure he has OCD, or is there such a thing as a completely healthy fascination with the number three?"

"Might be a clue," John said with a shrug, the voice at the back of his head repeating for the thousandth time   _ 'Sherlock would know'.  _ "Hope my clothes are dry because I am not going out looking like this."

John stood up, looking like he had shrunk, the way the clothes hung loosely off him. He glared at Greg, daring him to laugh, but he only looked him up and down before looking towards the bathroom where he'd hung the sodden clothes the previous night.

"Yeah, they should be... Erm... I have to ask, John, about last night. I don't know... remember, that is..." he trailed off, looking uncomfortable, so John hurriedly filled him in.

"Donovan sent you home, then called me. You're a  bloody idiot, you know? You left your fucking front door open, and I found you soaking wet and passed out on your bed. I undressed you and let me tell you, you were being  _ very _ unhelpful, so I didn't even attempt dressing you back in pyjamas. Don't worry, I didn't look,"  _ much, _ he amended to himself. "And I didn't send naked pics of you to the Yard. Satisfied?"

Greg nodded, licked his chapped lips, then looked away. Embarrassed. Only to be expected.

"Thanks," Greg said. "I... We'd better get going if we want to make it before the crime scene turns into a mediatic circus."


	12. Trap for Two

Greg glanced over at John while they walked towards the flashing police cars. Most of his friend's clothes had been dry except for his jumper and jacket that had taken the worst of the deluge from the previous day, so he was wearing Greg’s warmest jacket instead. It was too big on him, but Greg thought he looked...well, he wanted to say adorable but he doubted his friend would appreciate him even thinking such a word applied to him. It did though, almost as much as he had that morning when he’d found the good doctor sprawled on his sofa, snuggled in  _ his _ clothes. Seeing him like that, knowing he’d come all the way to his flat, under that awful weather, just to take care of him, well… that had almost been too much for Greg. He’d been that close to tell him… What? That he liked him as more than a friend? That he was attracted to him? That he’d somehow fallen in love with him and had only just realized it? But whenever Greg imagined confessing those thoughts to John, he couldn’t help picturing him laughing in reaction, thinking he was joking or something. Not that he’d blame him. If someone completely unexpected, say like Dimmock or Anderson, said those things to him out of the blue, he’d probably react that way, and then maybe tell them to back the fuck off out of sheer surprise, so yeah… Maybe not such a good idea.

John caught him staring and raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe I should have left you to sleep at my place. You look completely knackered,” Greg said as he lifted the police tape for John to pass under.

“I would have been angry if you had. Actually, I’m still pretty mad at you for being such an idiot yesterday. You’re lucky to be back on your feet today.”

“Yeah, well, I had a good doctor looking after me.”

“And you better remember that the next time you go gallivanting under the rain.”

“I wasn’t ‘gallivanting’, I was working,” Greg said indignantly.

“Already bickering like an old married couple, I see,” Sally said as she walked towards them. “Thanks for your help, Doctor Watson. If he hadn’t been up and about today, the case would have gone to someone else.”

She led them to the shabby backroom of a sandwich joint. Not killed at home, that was new. The place would have been cramped even without all the SOCOs working the crime scene and there was only one way in and out, through the shop's front door.

“He’s taking more risks,” Greg pointed out. “Sally can you see if there are any CCTVs pointed this way? Maybe we’ll get lucky this time.”

She nodded and trotted off while a couple of officers left the backroom for them to enter. It was really, really cramped. The victim was just as expected. Dead, obviously, with those twin streak of blood from the eyes down, the cut in the right hand and two puncture marks at the neck, but John noticed the area around the punctures looked a bit different, although he couldn't pinpoint exactly how they differed. The victim had been a huge man, the kind that immediately put you in mind of a bull, with bulging muscles everywhere and a neck as thick as his thigh. The Fury was definitely taking more risks given the previous victims had been an overweight man, an old one and a small woman.

“This is usually the kind of scenario where the victim knew his killer, right? The Fury couldn’t have sneaked up behind him in this set-up, which means the victim had to invite him in, wasn’t suspicious and didn’t even have time to fight,” John said.

Greg raised an eyebrow.

“Well, I imagine all this mess on his desk would be on the floor by now if he had tried fighting off his killer,” John explained, pointing at the piles of loose papers, stacked metal boxes, bulging brown envelopes… Wait a minute. 

Greg carefully opened one of the envelopes and smirked, then checked a couple of the metal boxes, solidifying his niggling suspicions.

“Drug dealer,” he told John. “Working from the backroom, less chances of getting caught than selling on street corners. I bet he didn’t sell many sandwiches. Want to check out the fridge?” 

John chuckled and said he'd leave it to Porky in case there was bacon in it.

“And now we know why the Fury killed him. We’ll have to check his file,” John said, then looked at their man, covered in tattoos, scars, his face twisted in an angry scowl even in death. A career criminal if he ever saw one. “I bet it’s huge. It’s gonna take ages to link him to the other three, if we even can. I doubt your old friend even worked his case. Not his division, right? Do you think the Fury is branching out?”

“Drugs kill, so this bastard probably killed people indirectly by selling the stuff. That might be enough for the Fury,” Greg looked around the backroom but there was honestly not much he could do there so he left the place to the SOCOs waiting outside.

“Neighbours?” John asked.

“The rats, you mean? They’re usually not very talkative, but be my guest,” Greg said indicating the narrow alley that ran down the side of the fake sandwich shop.

They carefully walked the length of it, shining borrowed torches on the ground and there were indeed a few rats that scuttled out of their way, but apart from that, nothing seemed to have been disturbed or left by the Fury so they went back to the main street and interrogated the other shop owners around as well as the neighbours, but this wasn’t the sort of place where you hung around at night and no one had seen or heard anything or anyone. What a surprise. Thankfully, Sally was more helpful and pointed towards a CCTV at the very end of the street that was pointed their way so maybe, just maybe, they’d get their first glimpse of their serial killer. One could only hope at this point. They were about to return back to the Yard when Porky called out for him.

“Thought this might interest you,” he explained, holding out a dirty sheet with two addresses and phone numbers attached, nothing else. “It was in one of the stash boxes, I thought it might be of use to you before it’s whisked off to forensics for processing.”

Greg thanked him and snapped a picture of the paper with his phone.

“Want to check these out?” Greg asked.

“Could be dangerous,” John replied.

“When has that ever stopped you? We’ll just snoop around and if there’s anything interesting going on, we’ll call for back-up, okay?”

He knew John would agree before he’d even given him a conspiratorial nod.

 

ooo

 

The first address they checked out looked like a replica of the small shop they had just left, but according to a neighbour, it hadn’t been open in months and a quick peek through the window confirmed it looked abandoned: locked down, dusty and cobwebbed. The second address was yet another little sandwich shop like the other two. No surprise there, but the metal railing that was supposed to keep trespassers out had evidently been forced open at some point.

“Backup?” John asked before trying to peer in through the dusty window. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone here either though.”

“We’ll just check it out, yeah? It’s open.”

John made a gentlemanly after-you gesture, so Greg pulled the opening wider before slipping inside. It was grimy and judging by the smell, had been empty for a while too.

“So the victim used to skip location from time to time to throw off cops, is that it?” John asked, his nose twitching in displeasure at the musty smell of confinement.

“Maybe, but someone has been here recently,” Greg said, pointing his flashlight at drag marks in the dust on the tiled floor leading to the back of the kitchen. “Maybe he stocked some of his merchandise here. I’d better check if  there’s some left. I don’t want that stuff ending up in the street if I can help it.

John nodded and followed close behind until they reached a walk in fridge. It was rather small but so was the fake sandwich joint. Greg shone his lamp on the shelves but the only box there contained individual packets of sugar that had seen better days. He turned towards John, who was waiting in the doorway since the fridge was so small, about to say they were done here, but John wasn’t alone. Unawares, standing right behind him, was the shadow of a third person. He would have missed it entirely if it hadn’t moved right at that moment. Greg was about to shout out a warning when the shadow pushed John, shoving him inside with Greg, before slamming the door shut. Greg dropped his torch when John landed on him, sending the both of them crashing against the nearest shelf in complete darkness, landing in a heap on the sticky floor.

“Fuck,” Greg muttered, rubbing the back of his head. “You alright?”

John was lying half atop him, his face buried in his stomach. At least, he’d had a soft landing. Greg just wished his traitorous body did not find so much enjoyment in the prolonged contact given the circumstances. Locked in a smelly fridge. Really, there were appropriate moments for such thoughts, and this was definitely not one of them.

“Yeah, fine. Sorry. I didn’t even hear him sneak up on me. That was rather lame. Did you see him?”

“No,” Greg admitted. “Just a shadow. You?”

“No. Sorry. Didn’t even have time to turn around... Do you have your torch nearby? I think mine broke,” John said and the sound of rattling plastic made itself known. “Yep, broken. Where’s yours?”

“I dropped it too but I think I heard it roll under a shelf near the back.”

“Okay, don’t move," John said, stretching over him to reach the back of the fridge, creating friction in all the right places. "I’ll just- Aah... Sorry,” John said, falling down atop him again when he tried to get up. “Urgh, the shelves are all slimy. I really don’t want to know what I just touched.”

“That’s...ah… alright,” Greg managed to say but if John didn’t stop squirming atop him right now…

“Erm… Greg?”

Oh, God. Too late. But it was pitch black,  so Greg could just shove him off and deny everything. Except he didn’t.

“You don’t have a fridge fetish, do you?” John asked, startling a laugh out of him. Count on John to say something completely unexpected.

“If I didn’t know before, I can definitely answer that by the negative now.”

“Oh… so… that means… you… does it mean that you...err...” 

At this rate, they’d die of old age before John finished his question so Greg filled him in despite his earlier resolve not to do such a risky thing.

“Yeah, but just ignore it. We do have more urgent things to do right now.”

“Right, yeah. Torch,” John said, sounding a bit dazed, but -damn him- he wiggled atop him again, the bloody tease, and a moment later, his phone screen was on, barely illuminating the small space.

John looked down at him for just a second, a long, considering second which seemed to stretch on forever, then his gaze flicked to a spot behind his head and he crawled halfway up him, reaching for the very back of the fridge where he retrieved Greg’s torch, turning it on with a triumphant cry before handing it back to him and moving very carefully to get back up, doing his best not to step on any of Greg's appendages or bang his own against the shelves. Good thing none of them suffered from claustrophobia.

“Here,” John said once he was upright and squashed against a shelf to leave enough room for Greg to manoeuvre, offering a hand up.

With the torch on, the place seemed much too bright, especially with them having to stand so close together. John looked at his phone.

“No signal,” he said.

Not surprising in this kind of fridge. Greg checked his own anyway, just in case. No signal. They inspected the door but it was old and only opened from the outside. Trying to force it open only resulted in bruised shoulders. It was a damn stupid place to get locked in.

“Donovan will soon notice we’re not at Scotland Yard. She’ll find us. Porky knows where we went, too,” Greg said, trying to reassure John. “This thing is so old, I’m not even sure it’s airtight anyway,” he added, but that might have been a lie since they couldn’t get a signal through.

“So we wait?” John asked.

Greg shrugged, he didn’t have any better ideas.

“So we don’t have anything better to do right now?” John added.

Damn, trapped and double-trapped. Did he want to have this discussion with John? Yes and no, it really depended on the outcome, but for that, he had to go through the discussion. And, judging by John’s face, he wasn’t going to let it go, whatever Greg decided. John had always been stubborn that way, sometimes it was endearing, other times it was damn annoying. Right… might as well take the dive now, get it over with, be mortified for the rest of his life and try to put the whole thing behind him. Behind them, if John still wanted to see him after this, even if it was just as friends.

“This is not how I imagined it would go,” he muttered, holding the torch pointed at the floor, that much less light to shine on his embarrassment.

He leaned against the shelf on one side while John did the same facing him, his own legs on either side of John’s given the lack of space.

“If ever,” Greg added, trying to think on how to go about telling his friend he was having not so friendly thoughts about him. He must have stayed silent too long because John took over.

“So you’re… attracted to me?” he asked, cocking his head to the side as if trying to read what Greg couldn’t say right off his face.

Their eyes met and Greg felt the now familiar twinge of want stir deep in his body. There was no denying it. After that dream he'd had of John, and his own body's betrayal just now, he had no doubt he was attracted to John. He nodded, his voice seemingly trapped in his throat somewhere.

“But you’re…” John trailed off, waving a hand towards him, showing him up and down as he searched for his words.

“Straight? Yeah, I know. Believe me, I was confused too, but Sally has this theory-”

“Donovan?” John exclaimed. Squeaked, really, but it was cute.

“Yeah. Apparently I made ‘this face’ at the widow's crime scene,” Greg said making sarcastic quotation marks in the air, the light of his torch bobbing around. “And since then, she’s convinced I’m madly in love with you.”

John froze, eyes wide, and so did Greg when he realized what he’d just said.

“I’m not... I mean… maybe… Oh, fuck it,” Greg said, running a hand through his hair. Was he imagining it, or was it starting to get hotter in the small space of the walk-in fridge? He didn’t know where to look so he settled on the bright spot of light of his torch and he just babbled on and on, he couldn’t stop himself now. “I like you, John. A lot. And I don’t care if I’m straight, or not, or if I don’t know what I’m doing, because I'm pretty sure I don't have a fucking clue, but... I don't care. I can’t help what I'm feeling, but I didn't mean to spring this on you either, and I'd understand if you don’t-”

John pushed himself off his shelf, the sudden movement shutting him up, then he took a step forward between his legs, bringing them face to face, tantalizingly close. The burn in Greg's lungs informed him quite painfully he’d been holding his breath so he let it go, but his heart was still hammering in his chest and he wondered briefly if it would ever slow down again. He hadn’t felt like this for years… decades. Then John licked his lips, something he did often, but this time, he was staring at his own lips as he did so, and that was undoubtedly one of the most arousing things Greg had ever seen. John closed the distance between them while Greg’s heart was chanting  _ yes, yes, yes, finally, finally, finally  _ in a loop _.  _ After that, it was all John, and only John: the feel of his lips on his, his hands on his hips, his chest against his, his face, a bit of stubble, the tip of his nose, cold, his fluffy hair tickling him... He was everywhere. He was soft and hard, hesitant and urgent, and so unbelievably delicious. Greg moaned against John's mouth, overcome by pleasure and emotion. This felt so right, the two of them, it was a wonder it hadn’t happened sooner. It was so glaringly obvious that many had seen it before either of them did, so perfect that Greg would never let go.


	13. Leap of Deduction

John came up for some much needed air. Either the fridge was truly airtight despite its sorry state of disuse, and with two grown men confined in the small space… well, let’s just hope Donovan or Porky showed up soon. Or maybe it was just the kiss. That fantastic kiss. He’d kissed Greg. He hadn’t seen  _ that _ coming. He, John Watson, had just kissed his friend, Greg Lestrade… and it was fine, it was  _ all  _ fine. Better than fine, in fact.

He leaned back for the verdict. Greg could still change his mind. He couldn’t run away screaming, granted, but he could still say he’d made a mistake. John could accept that. He eyed Greg with trepidation, his breathing heavy, but so was Greg’s. 

“Alright?” John asked, unable to keep a smile off his face because that kiss had been as amazing as it had been unexpected.

“Yeah,” Greg replied then looked at him with… ‘the face’. Alright, he could see what Donovan had meant by that now. Greg was glowing like the friggin sun. How had he not seen that before? Or could the man just switch it on and off? That called for some experiments. “You?”

John nodded. He was more than alright, he felt a warmth he had thought extinguished forever rekindle slowly in the face of what Greg had said, of what he’d shared, of his gentle affection. John wasn’t sure when he’d shut all of those emotions away, locked in a box, never to be opened again, but Greg had effortlessly popped the lid open and John felt like a burden had been lifted.

“Not sure where we go from here, though,” John confessed. “I've never... evolved... from a friendship to a relationship before."

And it was true, John had always had friends on one side and dates on the other, the two mingling but never overlapping. Not that he made a rule out of it, it was just not the way things usually happened. John searched Greg’s face for an answer and saw a flash of realisation cross his face. Apparently, even Greg had thought Sherlock and he had been an item. John rolled his eyes to let him know what he thought of that, but Greg had the nerve to smile back sheepishly before giving him an answer.

"It can just be as usual, yeah? But with more of this,” Greg said, pulling John back to him for a hug and dropping a kiss on the top of his head.

“That sounds good,” John replied with a small hum of contentment as he leaned against Greg's warm body.

He could get used to this. Easily. Yes, easy. This was easy between them. No drama, no complications, no apprehension. Just warmth, human contact and easy affection. Some might say boring, but John had had enough melodrama in the past to last him a lifetime, and just because he craved excitement and danger in his everyday life, it didn’t mean he wanted it in his private life too, on the contrary. It was a question of balance. Maybe that’s why Sherlock never understood his taste in girlfriends, calling them boring, ordinary, bland… It's not like he wanted to date dormant spies, ruthless assassins or, God forbid, a Dominatrix. John rested his head against Greg’s shoulder, inhaling deeply the man’s aftershave, a rumble of appreciation escaping him.

“Are you purring?” Greg asked, the fondness in his voice evident as one of his hands played with locks of his hair.

John chuckled but he was, sort of, and he admitted as much. No doubt Sherlock would have found Greg boring too, dismissed him as he had his other girlfriends, but he wasn’t. Greg was funny, kind, charming and considerate. A solid rock to cling to in the turmoil of life, a bright light to guide him through the dark clouds of anger and grief. Christ, he must have been blind not to see it before. All those times Greg had imposed himself at Baker Street, taking care of him when he was in one of his drunken rages or in deep apathy, trying to shake some sense into him. All those visits, over all those long months… It couldn’t have been easy or pleasant for Greg who had his own life and problems to deal with. He was a true friend. One who cared and stayed even when John was being a drunken ass, cussing at him when he was only trying to help. John hoped he didn’t fuck this up.

After a while, they found themselves sitting on the floor next to each other, their knees drawn to their chest because of the lack of space, but leaning against one another. Sure the floor was grimy, but they couldn’t stand indefinitely and the comfortable silence they’d shared in the beginning had become more tense as time passed and no one came to their rescue. They were lucky the fridge was not working or they’d have to worry about hypothermia and frostbites too, but the situation was already starting to become dire anyway. The fridge was too small, evidently airtight despite it not being in functional order, and there were two of them locked in. John could feel the first signs of carbon dioxide poisoning manifesting: their breathing becoming more laboured, and he was starting to feel a bit dizzy. They didn’t have long now, maybe an hour left… at most, and they’d be in a sorry shape by then. Donovan better get here quick. If he died here... if  _ Greg  _ died here, like this, he’d kill her, or haunt her at the very least.

“John?” Greg whispered. “I think I heard something.”

“What? Really?” 

John listened carefully and thought he could hear scratching of some sort. The bubbling hope he’d felt at Greg’s words evaporated instantly, because that sounded more like a rat than any real help. But then, the door was suddenly wrenched open, beams of light blinding him.

“Oh, thank God!” That was definitely Donovan. She sounded more pissed than relieved though.

Arms pulled him up and off the floor, away from Greg, and helped him walk towards the light, outside, into the fresh air. John paused to take in a deep breath, but the insistent arms continued pulling him towards a flashing ambulance. He sat on the opening while the scratchy shock-blanket of doom was laid on his shoulders and an oxygen mask was shoved over his face. The paramedics started prodding him but he batted their hands away.

“M’fine. Thanks,” he mumbled through the mask, peering into the crowd milling about to find Greg.

Donovan was pushing him along with an angry scowl on her face and plopped him down next to John where another oxygen mask and a similarly itchy blanket was forced upon him. They looked at each other and grinned, but were then cuffed over the head by the still irate sergeant.

“What did I tell you?” she growled, looking at Greg. “Not to go anywhere alone after that mail! But did you listen? Noooo. You had to go poking your nose into shady places without so much as telling me or taking someone along.”

John was about to protest, but she cut him off with a curt shake of her head.

“No offence, doctor, but you don’t count. You’re not a copper. Can you imagine the shit we would have gotten if we hadn’t found you two in time? A DI and a civilian locked in a fridge by the serial killer that’s making the headlines?”

“Can’t be sure it was him,” John muttered defensively.

“Actually, we can,” she sniped and spun on her heels in a huff, disappearing amongst the other officers and curious bystanders, heading back towards the dingy sandwich-joint.

“You know what she means by that?” he asked Greg once she was out of view.

Greg nodded and glanced around for any eavesdroppers.

“Shoved my face in it before letting me out. The Fury left us a message spray-painted on the other side of the fridge’s door.”

John held his breath, imagining all sorts of ominous messages, hoping for an insight into the killer’s mind and motivations, but Greg was obviously enjoying his trepidation and making the suspense last, so John slapped his arm.

“Out with it, you tease,” he ordered.

“‘ _Fair warning_ ’, that’s all,” Greg answered, holding his hands out in surrender.

“And the previous one was ‘Friendly warning’, right? Guess you can expect a third warning before things get ugly given his obsession with threes,” John mused.

“Plenty of room to catch him before that!” Greg said giddily.

“Alright, I think that’s enough oxygen for you,” John decided taking both their masks off.

Greg’s dark eyes were shining bright, looking up at him from his makeshift seat on the ambulance step and it was all John could do to stop himself from snogging that gorgeous, dimpled face into next week, but reason came to the forefront: case, serial killer, half the Yard running around…  They decided to head back to Greg’s office to dig into more old files the way they had with the first string of murders. Donovan didn’t want them on this crime scene anyway. She was rather bossy when she was crossed, but Lestrade just took it in stride.

 

ooo

 

Back in Greg’s office again, they were bombarded with more data they he knew what to do with: reports on the surveillance of former DI Bartolomeo, videos of the fake sandwich joint, first reports from forensics and the interviews of witnesses, the autopsy was under way already since it was given high-priority and there was a whole lot of requests from his superiors and media that he just plain ignored. And all of it was unsurprisingly disappointing, as always: no clues, no lead, no epiphany. It was maddening, especially because they had footage of the killer, but it was too far, too blurry and he was evidently well shrouded in a dark hoodie or something similar.

Greg had gone out for more of the highly-concentrated, syrupy caffeine while John tried to gather anything from the footage, trying to think like Sherlock, trying to find what everyone would have missed but him. Unfortunately, he was no Sherlock and the computer decided to die on him, prompting him into a shouting match with the damn thing.

“Everything alright?” came Donovan’s uncertain voice from the doorway.

“Bloody computer rebooted for no reason and now it’s stuck. Look! It's blue, and it keeps blinking at me. Look! It did again!” He felt like kicking it, but since that might be considered destruction of public property, John had to make do with cursing at the unconcerned winking screen.

The sergeant’s look told him that it was something that happened more often than not, and she stepped in to deal with the damn thing. Surprisingly, she had it back up in no time and he had to admit he was impressed. 

“You were looking at the footage?” she asked. “Not much to see, was there? Bloody frustrating is what it is.”

John nodded and pointed at the time stamps as they went through it.

“What I don’t get is why he stays in there so long,” John thought aloud, then turned to Donovan. “It can’t take him that long to jab a needle in his neck,” he said and mimicked the gesture on her, and then played the rest of the scene, going through the motions while using her as the victim, which was quite therapeutic for the little anger he still felt towards her. “Get him paralysed, then another jab next to the first. And why even bother with the first? But it kills him in a few minutes... Three, four, maybe even five minutes given the bulk of this one. He might check for a pulse. Cut his hand and paint the tears… and he’s done. It shouldn’t have taken more than-”

“Ten minutes,” Donovan said with a grin. “Tops.”

“And he was in there for almost half an hour. What does he do? Have a chat with them? Well, that could actually explain the first jab with the paralytic.”

“You think he talks to the victims like the suicide-cabbie did? You think they’re given a chance too? Or that he plays with them?”

John shrugged and then startled around when the door opened, having completely forgotten where he was. Greg watched them curiously, more relaxed now that he’d gotten a dose of the monstrous, tar-like substance that was the Yard’s coffee, and then he gaped at them.

“John! Don’t move!” he ordered. “You too, Sally. Stay right where you are.”

John glanced at Donovan who was standing behind him: she shrugged and waited for orders, so John did the same.

“I’ve been so stupid! I saw it but I didn’t…” Greg chuckled. “I didn’t observe.”

John looked at him as if he’d gone quite mad. Why was he quoting Sherlock? He was even acting a bit like him, truth be told, and it was creeping him out.

“The shadow, John. The Fury. It was right behind you, but it was about Sally’s size, maybe even shorter. Take your heels off, Sal.”

“My-”

“Off.”

Donovan huffed and took off her shoes, settling back behind John when she was finished, while Greg stood in front of them, keeping about the same distance he had in the fridge.

“How tall are you, Sally?” 

“About 5’3. Are you sure about this? It’s rather small for a man.”

“No, it’s possible,” John said after a moment’s consideration. “But the person who pushed me didn’t use all that much force. I was caught off guard more than anything else, and the push was sharp but maybe… Push me,” he told Donovan.

“What? No! I don’t want to-”

“Push him, Sally. I’ll catch him if he falls,” Lestrade said and couldn’t keep the smirk off his face.

Sally rolled her eyes at the obvious flirt.

“Ready?” she asked.

John nodded, bracing himself and was pushed, not nearly as strongly, so he only stumbled a couple of steps before finding his balance, to Greg’s obvious disappointment, but the hands had been placed on his back at almost the exact same height. He’d know, he was still smarting from it.

“You have to push harder than that,” John chided.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she replied, crossing her arms across her chest.

“You should push me too,” John told Greg. “So I can compare.”

Greg’s mouth twisted in disapproval and then relaxed.

“Okay, but we’re going to the gym. Less chance of an accident if we put one of those mats to break your fall.”

 

ooo

 

And that’s how the three of them found themselves at the end of a tiresome day playing push-John in the Yard’s gym.

“Shove me with the palms of your hands as hard as you can,” John reminded Donovan. “Don’t hold back this time. I know you’re stronger than you look.”

John was goading her, successfully judging by the thunderous look on her face.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Watson,” she hissed and pushed.

John fell in much the same fashion as he did when the Fury sent him flying in the fridge against Greg, except the mats were cushioning his fall this time around. And he knew it had been coming, too.

“Okay,” John concluded. “That felt a lot like the Fury. Same hand placement, small hands too, and a woman of similar size has enough force to have done it. Your turn, Greg.”

“But why? If you’re sure?” Greg argued.

“Because that was similar. I want to see how different it would be with a taller, stronger man pushing me. Maybe the Fury was crouched and the effect would be the same as with Donovan… Yeah, in fact, you’ll push me twice. Once crouched over so you appear the same size as Donovan and once standing up. Thanks, Greg. That should be thorough enough.”

Greg groaned but placed himself behind John, slouching over so he looked about the same size as his colleague.

“This is really not comfortable,” he commented. “Why would he move around like this?”

“Absolutely no idea. But it’s not like we understand anything about this killer anyway. Go on then, don’t hold back.”

Again, John braced himself, and again, he landed on the mats, almost over them since he was shoved forward so hard.

“Ouch, no,” John declared with a wince. “Your hands were a lot higher, even bent over like that and you used too much force.”

“And I was holding back,” Greg said.

“Bloody cheat.”

“I’m not pushing you again,” Greg warned. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Yes, you are, just for comparison’s sake. But this time stand up straight and try to push a little less. I almost flew over the mats there.”

“Fine,” Greg groused. “But this is the last time, you stubborn git.”

“Prat.”

“Oi,” Donovan exclaimed. “Stop with the flirting already.”

They grinned sheepishly and the next thing he knew, he face planted on the mats again.

“Too high,” John declared. “And your hands are too large.”

Their Fury was a woman, just like the myths, he was sure of it. 


	14. Ghost Delivered Message

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your reviews! I'm greatly enjoying them as you share your deductions with me, some right, some wrong, but you're pretty good at ferreting out all the clues! And since it wasn't confusing enough, let's add some more mystery :p

“That was entirely unnecessary,” Greg said, once they’d returned to Baker Street. 

They had somehow managed to get their belongings spread between their respective flats even before they’d gotten involved: John’s medical kit and his coat having been left behind at his flat that morning, while Greg’s toothbrush and a sad, lonely sock of his had been abandoned here in the last few days, but they decided to stay at Baker Street tonight since it was closer and John was in such a sorry shape.

“No, it wasn’t. We had a theory, now we have a certainty.”

“I’m not even sure we do. It could have been a very short man, skinny, with small hands and little strength.”

“Shorter than me?” John snorted. “Poor bloke. We should probably give him a break, then. It must counts as mitigating circumstances.”

“Stop being such a smart ass and finish your meal,” Greg said, pointing with his fork. “And then you’re taking a shower. You still smell like the inside of that fridge.”

“So do you,” John remarked. “Are you offering to soap my back?”

Greg sputtered and almost choked on his mouthful of pasta.

“No! I wasn’t-”

“Relax, I was just kidding,” John chortled and squeezed his knee affectionately as he tilted more and more towards him. "This is going to be fun."

Greg growled and returned to his food. They'd skipped lunch, having spent most of it locked up in the fridge, and he was starving, but he kept an eye out to make sure John was eating at least half of his share. He was still a bit peckish about food most of the time, even with mouth-watering meals from Angelo and Mrs Hudson, but it wasn't unusual for an appetite to have to build itself back up after being neglected for so long in favour of booze and grief.

When John had eaten, showered and wrapped himself in his tartan dressing gown, he returned to deposit a bundle of clothes in his lap, amongst which the infamous girlfriend tee-shirt.

"Might as well make it official," John teased. "I'm beginning to wonder if that shirt has magical powers."

"I'd better keep it safe then. Wouldn't want you to be swamped with paramours who slip this shirt on by accident."

Greg kissed John lightly on his way to the bathroom because he saw another snarky comeback about to come his way, and that had seemed like the best way to shut him up. And it worked! John was right: this could be fun, this new intimacy, except John seemed to have other ideas because he deepened the kiss and it was very hard to have to push him back.

“Shower,” Greg panted and fled towards the bathroom.

That man was going to drive him crazy, but there was no way he was going to do… whatever they might or might not do tonight, smelling like the stale remnants of an old fridge. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous, because he was, because this was John and he was special. Also, he hadn’t lied when he’d told John he had no idea what he was doing. This was definitely not his area, but John seemed confidant enough for two. Greg smirked. That sly fox… When John had been claiming far and wide that he wasn’t gay, that wasn’t exactly the same as claiming he was straight either, and it was looking more and more as if John was actually not very picky about gender. But he’d just happened to have always been dating women since moving in with Sherlock? Unlikely. He’d have to ask John about that… 

_ But not now, _ he thought as he rinsed the shampoo out of his hair and turned the taps off. Now was really not the time he wanted to summon Sherlock’s ghost.

At least John hadn't dated him. Greg hadn't realised how weird he would have found that until he felt relief at John's confirmation they'd never been an item. Competing with the memory Sherlock would have been hard enough, competing against his ghost would have been impossible.

Greg was in high spirits when he stepped out of the bathroom but his mood immediately plummeted when he caught sight of John who looked like he'd seen a ghost of his own. He was white as a sheet and shaking as he stood in front of a board in the back of the living room, with a bright yellow sticky note in one hand and a pen in the other. Greg walked over to him slowly because John had not responded to his name. Greg knew by now not to startle him if his mind had gone wandering back to whatever horror he’d seen in Afghanistan or with Sherlock. He did sneak a look at the board when he approached though and recognized the Fury case all laid out in a complex map displaying the victims, locations, clues, witnesses, newspaper clippings… It had obviously started small before it had taken on a life of it’s own and overstepped the boundaries of the board to trespass on the walls around it. Mrs Hudson was not going to be happy if she saw that, and Greg could picture her making John take it all down as soon as she found out, even if John had obviously been working long hours on it. Greg was surprised he hadn’t seen it before, but he hadn’t come to Baker Street for a couple of days now. Oh… The night John couldn’t sleep because of the snakes! That must have been when he’d created this monster.

“John,” Greg called again, not daring to touch him yet.

John’s head turned very slowly towards him. It was eery, very unnatural.

“Sherlock,” John managed to get out, his voice sounding as broken as he looked.

“What?” Greg snapped, caught off-guard. He’d expected pretty much anything, but not that.

John tried to say something but gave up and just pointed at his board, so Greg followed his finger to a small map of London - well, as small a map as you could make of the city - with colored pins that were tied with red strings to the various victims except for one bright yellow sticky note stuck on the precise location of Scotland Yard. Greg frowned at it because that was not John’s handwriting. In fact, the block letters positively clashed next to John’s chicken scratch, and the message: ACCOMPLICE IN SY was not at all reassuring.

So John had not written that, or stuck it there, evidently, or he wouldn’t be in such a state of shock. But why in the world did he think it was Sherlock who’d left that note? He was dead, for crying out loud! Dead and buried for over a year!

“John,” Greg said softly, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You know that can’t have been Sherlock.”

John turned to look at him with mournful eyes and Greg braced himself for what he might say next.

“But-” John croaked, looking like he might break any second now, into so many pieces he’d slip through Greg’s hand again and be lost to the world for good. “It has to be. No one else could know that, deduce that… It has to be.”

Greg thought fast. Either someone was sticking random stuff on John’s board just to fuck with his mind or it was an actual clue and someone very smart had figured out an essential piece of the puzzle that they hadn’t even suspected existed. And John was right: it would take a Holmes to make such a deductive leap. One was dead, so it had to be the other.

“Mycroft,” Greg muttered.

“Mycroft?” John repeated, still sounding like a broken record, lost and dazed.

“Think about it, John,” Greg said and it looked like John was at least trying to, but it also looked like he was about to keel over.

Greg lead him to the couch and sat him down. Greg hesitated for a bit, but finally retrieved his phone. He didn’t want to call the other Holmes, it was never a pleasant experience, but he had to sort this out for John’s sake. Although… he could ask Mrs Hudson. Vigilant as she was, she would have seen him if he’d come by. Greg clambered down the stairs and knocked on her door, forgetting he’d just changed for the night.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, worried by his appearance and frantic knocking.

“Someone has been in the flat,” he said grimly. “Did you see anyone? Mycroft maybe?”

“Dear me, no. I would have warned you boys if there had been visitors. But I was out shopping today, so I suppose Mycroft could have let himself in. He’s sneaky like that, just like Sherlock was.”

“Yeah, well, John thinks Sherlock’s ghost just visited,” Greg muttered.

Mrs Hudson glanced up the stairs, repeating “dear me” under her breath.

“I have to call Mycroft,” he told the kind old lady. “Would you mind looking after John? I think I got rid of all the bottles, but…”

Mrs Hudson was surprisingly fast for a woman her age and she’d climbed halfway to the top before he thought of thanking her. John certainly didn’t need to hear the conversation he was about to have with Mycroft. He was just as sore a subject to John as Sherlock was. Mycroft answered on the first ring.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Cut the smarmy act, you git. What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

He sounded honest enough, but then, that was his job, wasn’t it? Deceptions and secrets came as naturally to politicians as breathing.

“So it wasn’t you who broke into Baker Street leaving cryptic notes to fuck with John’s peace of mind? He was just starting to get better, for fuck’s sake. You’re a fucking idiot for all that you think you’re so smart.”

“A note… concerning the case you’ve been working on together. The Fury.”

Greg grunted, annoyed the other man was dragging this on.

“Yes. My apologies. I was only trying to help, of course.”

“In that case, cut the Men in Black crap and bloody well do it like a normal person next time!” Greg snapped and hung up because he was really fed up with his nonsense, but glad he could reassure John that Sherlock’s ghost was not haunting his flat.

When he reentered the flat, he discovered Mrs Hudson had already plied John with a blanket, tea and the comforting words only your wise old Gran knew to say. John looked… marginally better, in that he wasn’t shaking quite as much, but he was still white as a sheet.

“Christ, John,” Greg said as he sat beside him and took him in his arms, pulling John against him. “It was Mycroft, he came by while Mrs Hudson was out shopping, I just talked to him.”

“Really?” John asked, his voice shaky with uncertainty. “Why did he come here? He never visits.”

“Says he wanted to help,” Greg snorted. “But I suppose we should take his clue seriously. I mean, he’s not an idiot despite what I told him.”

“You did?”

“You bet I did. Honestly, who does that?” Greg asked waving at the incriminating sticky note before huffing in exasperation. 

John settled down, his breathing becoming less panicked with time and colour returning to his cheeks. Mrs Hudson had left them upon seeing John was in good hands, but she made him promise to call her if he needed anything else. Greg was really starting to take a shine to her.

John was brooding and didn’t seem to want to talk about what had just happened, so Greg concentrated on the new clue instead. He took it at face value because it came from Mycroft freaking Holmes and he’d heard he was even smarter than Sherlock, which meant Greg had a big problem on his hands. If the Fury had an accomplice in Scotland Yard, it would actually explain a lot: how the Fury found his victims, why their case files were so empty, how he knew how to avoid leaving any evidence on the scene, how to avoid CCTVs… But it could be a lot worse. It all hinged on whether this accomplice was a passive or active partner, if he was just passing on information or actively sabotaging the investigation. Damnit. Greg could feel a headache coming on. He glanced at John, seeing he was starting to nod off, which wasn’t unusual after receiving such a shock and rush of adrenaline, so Greg dared not move. Sleeping the incident off was probably what would help John the most right now. Greg reached for one of the notepads that littered the place, recognizing from the page it was open to that it was the one John had used to research snake venom. Greg turned the page and slid the pen out of the spiral binding to start a list of everything that had gone wrong in this case, hoping like hell he was wrong about this:

  * No results for the widow’s nail sample, or anything else
  * No info from the Fury’s mail address
  * No documentation for the first three cases
  * Someone tipped off the media as soon as we got to the scene of the third murder



And that was only those he could know about, but there could be so much more going on that he was not even aware of. This was a nightmare. He’d never had to suspect his own team before… Not of being criminals at any rate. And if it was a woman? There weren’t that many women he worked with. Sally, of course, but surely it couldn’t be her… Molly? And there were always a couple of female officers on average at each scene. Greg groaned in frustration. The puzzle was so big and complex, he’d need to be a fucking Holmes to make sense of it.

 

ooo

 

A phone rang, startling him awake. Greg almost rolled right off the couch with John in tow, and only John’s inhuman ability to snap awake in a second saved them from that miserable fate so early in the morning. That and the fact that John had been sleeping on him, which made it quite easy for the man to pin Greg to the cushions. John was staring down at him while Greg looked up at him with wide eyes now that he was fully awake, his heart pounding while the ringing continued, demanding his attention. It was his phone… Where was the blasted thing anyway? Greg should search for it, it was probably important since it wasn’t even light out, but he was loath to break eye contact from John’s intense gaze, completely hypnotized by it. Suddenly, John was on him, kissing him for all he was worth, his hands reaching for every available stretch of skin it could reach. Greg was subjecting to it wholeheartedly though, and he’d quite forgotten about his phone until John groaned in annoyance and pushed himself off, reappearing a second later to hand him his wailing phone. It was Sally. Of course it was. Greg answered just as John let himself fall back against him and his greeting was nothing more than a woosh of air being expelled from his lungs.

“You alright?” Sally said from the other end of the line.

“Uh, yeah,” John’s hands slid beneath his shirt, making it difficult not to sound out of breath.

“If you say so,” she replied, unconvinced. “Listen, we got another one and it's a bit… different.”

“How so?” Greg asked, hoping a change in pattern would be to their advantage for once.

“It looks like the Fury is going public. You’d better get here quick. I’m on my way too.”

Greg cursed under his breath as he committed the address to memory, then gave Sally an estimation of when he'd arrive and hung up.

“I have to go,” he told John softly.

Truth be told, he’d much rather stay here with John in his arms.

“I heard,” John said with a nod at his phone, and they reluctantly untangled themselves. “I can’t come along if it’s as public as Donovan makes it out to be, but I’ll follow in a bit.”

Greg raised his eyebrows in question but John waved him off to the bathroom. He was back out in five minutes and greeted by a coffee to go and a scone.

“Go,” John said with a quick peck on the lips that Greg unconsciously followed when John retreated, but was then summarily turned around and walked to the door. “Don’t forget: you can’t trust anyone so… be careful, okay?”

Greg nodded, stole one last kiss at the door and hurried away.

 

ooo

 

As it turned out, it was worse than he'd imagined. He didn't even need Sally's frantic twittering to know how bad it truly was. The massive crowd already gathered in the early hours of the morning where the streets were usually deserted, not to mention the journalists and their flashes, this place was a bloody circus, and all because the Fury, not content with the lack of headlines for his latest kill, had decided to up his game? It was never good when a serial killer decided to start putting on a show, not for him, granted, and certainly not for the inspector in charge of the case.

Greg grit his teeth upon seeing the body: unmistakably one of the Fury’s with the tears, slashed hand and two punctures at the neck, but contrary to the previous ones, he was stark naked and strung up to a lit lamppost for the whole world to see. It was indecent and he quickly motioned for the forensic team to take him down when they finished taking pictures. The victim was another known criminal involved with drugs, in manufacturing this time. A cook, they were called in the business, and this one was quite young. Christ, the Fury wasn’t kidding around anymore: he was getting more violent in a way and it could only get worse from now on.

And how had he managed to pull this off without being seen? How had he strung his victim up there? Especially if the Fury was a woman as they had thought… Greg looked at the victim who had to weigh at least 180 pounds, then to the lamppost standing a dozen feet high. Unless their Fury was a she-hulk, it would be impossible for a woman to pull such a dead weight up there, but the Fury who had locked them in the fridge was definitely slight of frame… So did she have help from the accomplice at the Yard, or was she the accomplice? Were there several Furies? Maybe the mole in the Yard participated in the murders too? Did that make him, or her, a Fury too? And given the First obsession with the number three, could there be three of them?

“Bloody fucking hell,” he muttered. He had to tell John. 

 


	15. Trust and Lust

John saw Greg scanning the crowd. He might have been looking for him but he wouldn’t find him, not disguised as he was. John pushed his way further up front, just in time to catch sight of the poor sod hanging from the lamppost before he was lowered to the ground. Greg was everywhere, breathing down everyone’s back and hovering over every evidence as it was bagged, tagged  and taken away. The sticky note had definitely made the DI paranoid, which was a good thing, in this case. John hated that Greg had to work with someone who could stab him in the back at any moment. He couldn’t trust anyone and the Fury could strike any time with another warning, or just outright get rid of him. John grimaced at the thought and narrowed his eyes at Greg and Donovan having a hushed argument.

No, they couldn’t even trust her. She’d been halfway decent lately, but that could be a ruse to gain their trust. For now, it was him and Greg against the rest of the world.

_ And Mrs Hudson _ , he amended after a moment.

John chatted with a few journalists that were lingering in case anything exciting happened, slightly amused that no one recognized him, but he quickly grew bored of their gossip and observed Greg again. He was easy to spot even from afar with his silver hair, and he cut an impressive figure in the middle of the taped off perimeter that looked nothing less than a busy anthill. Finally, as the activity died down, Greg peeled away from the rest, Donovan following him like his shadow, and headed for his car, so John sidled away to ambush him there.

“No comment,” Greg muttered as soon as he saw him, or rather his press card on display, and maneuvered to avoid him completely. Donovan was giving him the stink eye but went around to the passenger door, judging him to be no threat her boss couldn’t deal with. He was used to that look from Donovan, but it was strange having Greg direct that kind of dismissal at him when he was so used to his caring words and smiles.

“Not even if I ask nicely?” John purred.

Greg froze mid step, then whirled around, looking him up and down.

“You bastard! How did I not recognize you?”

John looked over the thick rimmed glasses he wore. That, the woolen hat covering his hair and his stolen press card pinned on a overlarge coat was apparently sufficient for him to become someone else.

“The subtle art of disguise,” he stage whispered. “I learned from the best and I still have a closet-full of disguises. It was about time they were put to some use.”

It was subtle but efficient. No one really looked at the members of the press on a crime scene: journalists hate competition so they mostly ignore each other, the gawkers and other thrill seekers can’t be bothered with something as mundane as the press when there's a bloody murder nearby, and the police avoid them like the plague. It was the perfect disguise for a crime scene.

“Your press card looks real,” Greg remarked. “Blimey, it is! Wait… when did you nick that from Kitty Riley? Don't tell me she's been by Baker Street again.”

“Er… yeah, she was. Ambushed me just outside yesterday and then she kind of had a nervous breakdown-”

“No. Please don't tell me you helped that viper… You did, didn't you?”

John tried to hide his smile. He could tell Greg wasn't really mad, just a bit surprised.

“Anyway, with the state she was in, it was easy enough pick-pocketing her press card. The picture doesn’t match, but I suppose no one really looks at them up close, a bit like your badge,” John said, remembering the way Sherlock flashed the stolen badge around, pretending to be Greg when he needed to be more official than a consulting detective. “Are you heading back to the Yard now?”

“Checking out the victim’s address,” Greg said. “It’s not far and I’d bet it’s the primary crime scene, because that poor sod wasn't killed here. He was a cook, by the way.”

“A cook?” John repeated, not understanding why Greg thought it needed mentioning.

“It’s what they call the chemists who whip up drugs in their own kitchens: methamphetamines, ecstasy pills, mushrooms, LSD… you name it, they make it.”

“That makes more sense,” John said before checking there were no eavesdroppers nearby and asking what Greg thought of the Fury’s display with the lamppost.

They couldn’t talk long though because Donovan, who had been looking curiously at them through the driver’s window, was becoming impatient. John wished he could stay with Greg, but at this point, he’d do more harm than good to his career, so he let him go, but they promised to keep in touch if either found anything new.

 

ooo

 

John let himself be escorted through the winding and lush corridors. He’d done away with his disguise, or he was sure he’d be receiving a lot more raised eyebrows than he currently was. He did look out of place, admittedly, amongst all these grey-haired men in their bespoke suits, but if it bothered Mycroft, then all the better.

“John,” Mycroft said, greeting him from his desk without a glance, signing a couple of paper and dismissing his secretary with a twitch of his fingers before giving him the full force of his blue-steeled gaze.

John didn’t waver, he wouldn’t give him the pleasure, but he did note the other man looked just a bit less pristine than he usually did. The lines of his face deeper than they were a year ago. Good. Maybe he did feel a smidgen of guilt about his brother’s fate.

“I want my gun back,” John said.

“Why don’t you take a seat?” Mycroft offered but John stood his ground, arms crossed over his chest. He’d be damned before he let Mycroft push him around. “What makes you think I have it? Detective Inspector Lestrade is the one who confiscated it, I believe.”

“As if he’d keep an illegal firearm with him. I’d like it back now.”

“After Lestrade’s rather frantic call last night? I think not.”

“That was a dirty trick you played, and you know it. I didn’t expect that coming from you.”

Mycroft had a pinched expression but he said nothing for a while, just observed him, probably deducing what he’d had for breakfast and where he’d been before he dropped unannounced by his office.

“Why do you require your weapon? Is it because of the Fury case?”

John nodded.

“If you or Lestrade are in any sort of danger, I’m sure I can-”

John chuckled bitterly before he could finish his sentence.

“What? Protect us? The way you did Sherlock? No, thanks. I think I’ll take our protection into my own hands, if you don’t mind.”

Again, that pinched expression, but he nodded and opened the bottom drawer of his desk with a key he magicked out of thin air, laying the familiar gun on the varnished wood of the desk. John eagerly reached for it, not caring he was dropping the cool facade he’d put on before stepping into the building. The prospect of actually having the means to protect Greg was too much to contain. However, he’d barely touched the cool metal when Mycroft’s hand trapped his own. John recoiled from the touch but the other man was a lot stronger than he looked and John didn’t really want to make a scene with all the security personnel right outside his office.

“Promise me to call if you need help,” Mycroft demanded, his voice soft but brooking no argument.

John hesitated only for a second before he nodded, knowing that if he was in such danger that he felt the need to call on Mycroft, then that probably meant he had neither the time nor the means to call him anyway, so it’s not like he’d be breaking a promise, technically. Mycroft released his grip on his hand and began shuffling papers on his desk again. Counting that as a dismissal, John left without another word, his gun tucked safely in the small of his back.

 

ooo

 

“What do you mean you got sacked?” John asked that evening, pushing the irate Greg down in his armchair before hurrying to put a cool beer in his hand. He’d stocked the fridge with a pack for Greg and hadn’t even touched it, which he counted as a small victory.

Earlier that day, John had received a text from Greg warning him he’d come back late, and around nine, Greg stomped his way up to the flat, ranting and growling, but not making much sense. Even Mrs Hudson had come to investigate the commotion before wisely hurrying back down.

“But you made progress today! You told me you found blood that couldn’t belong to the victim. They can’t just sack you for no reason.”

Greg huffed, combing a hand through his hair, looking both irate and a bit lost.

“It’s just… one of those days,” Greg said, around a swig of beer. “I stayed at the scene to make sure no one tampered with the evidence, that everything was properly handled and accounted for… I mean, it was too good to be true! And then, someone fucking lost the evidence before it was even processed! Fucking lost it! Even if we find it again, it won’t hold in court because it can be argued it’s been tampered with along the way.”

“Christ, I’m sorry, Greg. But why are they making you take the fall for the SOCO’s mistake?”

“You know how it goes… Besides they weren’t too happy with my announcement that we had a team of serial killers on our arms.”

“Oh God, you didn’t tell them you suspected someone from the Yard, did you?” John asked, worried that the Fury would be visiting that very night if he had.

“No,” Greg snorted. “Besides, it was obvious they’d rather ignore the problem and just pass the case on to someone else, which is completely useless. They’ll be just as stuck as I was, except they’ll have to catch up on the case which could take days. Dimmock knows it. He didn’t look too happy with that decision either.”

“They gave the case to Dimmock?” John exclaimed.

He recalled the baby-faced DI he’d worked with a couple of time. He was sharp and diligent, no question about that, but he clearly lacked the experience to take on such a high-profile case. John wouldn't be surprised if he got sacked too. Greg nodded grimly.

“I asked Sally to work with him. Just because I’m off the case doesn’t mean she has to be, too. She’ll be my eyes and ears in this investigation, and will be able to help Dimmock out, I hope... If she’s the Fury’s accomplice, she missed her call as an actor. I thought she was going to scratch the Superintendent's eyes out. Maybe she can figure out where the fuck-up with the evidence came from, because I sure can’t now that I’m locked out of the case.”

“Can’t you still investigate that from the Yard? Even if you’re not on the case, I mean.” John asked, puzzled, before he caught Greg’s guilty expression. “Alright, spit it out, Greg,” John admonished and received a wince in answer.

“I… might have told my superior where he could stuff my so-called far-fetched theories and choke on them when he’d realize I was right? So I’m grounded without pay for a couple of days for insubordination. Bloody wanker. He’s been looking for an excuse to sack me for a long time. I’m surprised he only put me on probation for a couple of day actually. I bet he'd love to kick me out of the force.”

A laugh escaped John. He’d tried holding it in, but really, Greg very rarely lost his temper and even when he did, John thought he was pretty composed and articulate. The last time  _ he _ had met a mouthy superintendent, he’d punched him right in the nose and been arrested.

“Wish I’d seen that,” John said, finally sitting down in the other armchair and putting his feet up in Greg’s lap. “Maybe I’ll have the pleasure of seeing him choke when several Furies are arrested by young Dimmock.”

“I’ll drink to that!” Greg said and hoisted his beer up before draining it entirely.

He placed it on the table, then grabbed John’s feet and started massaging them. John moaned at the feel of Greg’s strong hands on him, still in the process of getting used to being touched so much, before he protested.

“Hey, you’re the one who had a bad day. Shouldn’t I be the one doing that?”

“I can think of a couple of things I’d rather you be doing,” Greg replied huskily, pulling his left foot against his crotch.

John blushed. Apparently, anger made the good detective quite blunt and horny. Well, well, well... that was certainly interesting. He pulled his foot free and jumped out of his seat to sit across Greg’s lap. It was a tight fit with the two of them in the one armchair, but he made it work and Greg’s pupil’s were already blown wide, far too aroused to be bothered by anything so trivial. They kissed and rubbed against each other until his clothes felt entirely too uncomfortable. Greg suddenly stood up with John clinging to him like a koala. He gaped at Greg because he was clearly a lot stronger than he’d given him credit for and it was just… hot. But Greg swivelled around and dropped him back in his seat.

“What-” John protested.

“Not like this,” Greg said, caging him in the armchair. “Not because I’m frustrated with my job and angry at my superiors.”

“But-” John tried again, because he sure as hell didn’t care as long as Greg wanted him.

“No. I’d feel guilty. Let me just wind down, okay. I’ll take a shower. Hell, I  _ need _ a shower. You don’t want to know what sort of place I’ve crawled through today.”

John relented and sank back in the chair, feeling, not for the first time where Greg was concerned, that he was being selfish and demanding. Besides, they had time. Greg wouldn’t be called out to a crime scene for two whole days.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are hilarious. Thanks for that, I need it :)


	16. Weeding the Yard

When Greg exited the bathroom, he found John waiting impatiently for him in the exact same spot he had left him in, fidgeting like a kid on Christmas morning. His smile seemed nervous when he hopped out of his seat, grabbed his hand, then unexpectedly pulled him upstairs.

“John?” Greg sputtered, almost tripping over himself. “What’s the rush?”

The last thing Greg wanted was to pressure John into anything. He hadn’t meant to come on so strong earlier and thought a little time out would be enough to set things right again. But John didn’t answer and continued pulling him upstairs, to the only bedroom available. Before he knew it, Greg was jumping around on one foot on the top landing because he’d stubbed his toe on the last step. John, on the other hand, was trying, and failing to smother his giggles. Okay, now things were back to normal, even if it had taken a painful toe injury to get there.

“Oi,” Greg chided and hopped over to the small bed, holding his foot up for inspection. “I blame you for that.”

“Yeah, I'm sorry,” John said, joining him on the bed. “It's just that, when you were in the shower, I realised… I haven't been around people much since… I mean- I really liked waking up in your arms this morning and, well... Oh, damnit all to hell: I need a hug, okay? I mean… if you don’t mind.”

Greg stared at him, seeing John, the lonely, grieving man finding solace in a bottle, pushing everyone away when all he wanted was some human warmth… his heart melted a little more.

“Come here,” Greg said, his voice gruff with emotion as he pulled the smaller man in his arms and down onto the bed so they lay more or less comfortably in one another's arm. His bed was really small though. And squeaky. Which started John off on another fit of giggles, and then him, because of course his laugh would be infectious.

“I'm guessing no wild sex on this bed?” Greg teased.

“Depends if you want Mrs Hudson to offer you flowers in the morning. I think she was getting desperate to find me someone.”

“No kidding,” Greg muttered, remembering the lube and condoms she'd slipped him a while back. “I think I'll pass, if that's okay with you.”

“Yeah. Sorry I didn't think this through. My bed was never meant to accommodate two grown men and… well…”

And there was Sherlock's shadow. The git probably had a large bedroom with an even larger bed but there was no way either of them would feel like using it. Greg tightened his embrace and kissed John's temple, inhaling the intoxicating scent of his shampoo.

“No, that's okay. We'll get things sorted out. Besides, this is nice. Can't say I've had much company myself lately.”

John chuckled.

“A match made in heaven.”

That seemed like the most sensible course of action anyway. It’s not like they’d been together all that long, and Greg was knackered from being chewed out all day long for something he wasn’t even responsible for. He had no idea what John had been up to today, but he didn’t seem in much better shape. So they talked and laughed and kissed, in the warm embrace of one another, and then things sort of got out of hand from there. Both craving more contact, needing more, needing the comfort and to quench the desire that was slowly burning between them. Greg wasn't sure what he was doing, or what he should be doing. He hadn’t lied about that, he’d never been with another man, but he trusted John and when, after much fumbling, they both found themselves naked, John grasped his cock and Greg tensed, thinking he might come right there and then.

“Shh, it's okay,” John murmured.

Greg relaxed and started breathing again, afraid John had gotten the wrong idea, but the other man began stroking him, slowly, his own cock nudging against Greg's thigh. Greg wanted to reach for it but John was wiping his mind clean of any practical thought. God but he was good, and his mouth, kissing him everywhere he could reach, his hands mapping every dip and curve of his body, even the motion of him rutting against his side, everything, it was so much and it had been so long and it was  _ John! _

Greg panted, unsure in his post orgasm state of mind if he'd shouted that out loud or not.

“You did,” John whispered in his ear. Oh, so apparently he was babbling out loud.

“Yes, you are.”

“Oh fuck, I’m sorry, I-”

“Don't be. That was beautiful.”

John was still rocking slowly against him, so Greg finally realized he needed to get back in the game and show John just how much he loved him. It was easy flipping John on his back, both grinning at the loud squeak of protest the bed made, but in for a penny... Greg straddled John and pinned him down with both hands to kiss him in such a way that John would have no doubt of how exactly he felt about him. Then he trailed kisses down his neck - and was he ever so sensitive there - over his collarbone, his right nipple, down the centre of his stomach… Greg licked his lips in anticipation while John squirmed under him, his skin hot and flushed. He'd never done this before, but God did he want to.

“Greg,” John gasped, whether a plea or a protest, Greg didn't know and didn't really care. John needed this, and Greg wanted it.

He flicked his tongue over the tip of John's swollen cock, enjoying the sound of his name, more drawn out and guttural, before he gave his first blow job. It probably wasn't the best John had ever received, but he seemed far past caring for technique and was already too much on the brink. He did manage to push Greg off just before he came though, swearing like a sailor in a storm. And here Greg thought he couldn't get any fonder of the other man. How wrong he'd been.

 

ooo

 

There was only one thing better in the world than falling asleep in your lover's arms, Greg decided, and that was waking up in them.

“Morning,” he said, his voice so rough as sandpaper.

“Good morning. Looks like all that screaming did a number on your vocal chords.”

Greg blushed.

“I seem to recall hearing my name quite a lot too,” he grumbled.

“Indeed,” John replied in a lazy voice but with a wicked smile that had Greg ready to go at it again.

A bump sounding from downstairs startled him out of that line of thought though.

“Is there someone in the flat?” he whispered, alert and ready to spring out of bed, half expecting a Fury to run through the door.

“Yes, but it's only Mrs Hudson.”

Greg frowned and listened to the shuffling sounds one floor down.

“How do you know?”

“I can smell breakfast. No one would break in to make breakfast.”

“You think…  she heard us? Last night?”

“You can bet on it.”

John smirked at his uncertain expression.

“Come on, we'd better go down before she gets rid of my board. I don’t think she’s seen it yet.”

Greg followed John’s lead albeit a bit reluctantly. His bed was awful, but it still beckoned him with promises of warmth, sleep and if he was lucky, a naked John. However, John was obviously an early riser when he didn’t drink. One of those annoyingly cheery ones too, at that, who loudly greeted his landlady from the last step.

“Hello, boys!” Mrs Hudson cooed, bustling back from the kitchen with a plate of warm toast that she added to the already large pile of food waiting for them on the table. “Do eat up, you two must be famished!”

She winked at John who'd gone to sit on the other side of the table, which was a smart move, Greg realized, when Mrs Hudson walked by him and pinched his bum, making him jump in surprise.

“Sorry,” John said, looking not at all sorry. “She can be a bit much, but she means well.”

Greg shrugged and eyed the food, reaching for the blueberry muffins.

“What's with all this?” he asked with a grand wave at the table.

“Her own way of sending flowers, I suppose. At least you can eat these.”

“We should make that bed squeak more often.”

“You’d take advantage of an old lady’s kindness? I’m shocked, Detective Inspector Lestrade, shocked!”

“Ah, well, I’m not a Detective today, am I?”

“So what do we do about it?”

Greg smiled at his natural use of “we”, as if it never crossed his mind that this was Greg’s problem and he needn’t try to fix it for him, especially because it was such a difficult and dangerous situation.

“Well, I for one intend to find out who has been sabotaging me. I’m not too fond of traitors. And if we catch the accomplice, I bet the Fury won't be far.”

“Won’t they kick you out if you show up at the Yard though? The way gossip travels there, everyone must know what you did.”

“Well, I thought about it and I’ll just say I forgot something in my office. I doubt anyone but the Superintendent would actually tell me to bugger off, and he doesn’t go about the offices much, so if we’re discreet, we can probably sneak around the place for a while.”

“Ah, proper spy work. That should be fun. Not sure I’ll be that much help though. I wouldn’t know who or what is suspicious at the Yard.”

Greg shrugged. 

“You know the records room well enough. Maybe you can try and find out who's been doing what on the case: who called in the murders, who’s been surveilling old Ben, who’s been in charge of transferring the evidence, who monitored the CCTVs, that sort of thing. If we can find someone who’s had a hand in everything, that could be interesting.”

“So we split?”

“I don’t like it, but we’ll certainly be less noticeable if we do.”

His phone beeped with an incoming text and Greg quickly opened it, feeling some degree of relief that there was still someone he could trust at the Yard.

“It’s Sally. She’s on her way to see the third body with Dimmock and says she’ll send pictures of the scene. We should head for the Yard. It will be half empty with everyone running after the Fury so it’s our best shot to snoop around.”

 

ooo

 

Greg realized how much of a fixture he was at the yard when barely anyone noticed him. He hoped John was sneaking around with as much ease as he was. What he really wanted to find out was how, when and who had lost yesterday’s evidence. He’d purposefully stayed on the crime scene until everything was properly bagged, tagged, sealed and taken away before leaving himself, so he knew they should have arrived at the Yard, he just had to pick up the trail and find out where it left off. Greg checked the logbook for evidence deposits down in the labs yesterday, finding easily enough where Porky had signed them over and wrote down the numbers. They should have been logged in right after that by the lab personnel so he went in search of a vacant desk to look into it when he bumped into someone and muttered an apology. So much for discretion.

“Sorry. Oh… Hello, Detective Inspector! I thought you had been-”

Greg grimaced at the pretty young woman who’d cut herself off before she put her foot in her mouth. She was only vaguely familiar, and his eyes flicked down to her ID card: Jenny Atkins from IT. He recalled she’d been the one to check his computer when he’d received a mail from the Fury, but she’d been a lot less flustered then.

“I just came to see if Porky was alright,” Greg lied. “He was pretty shaken up yesterday. Do you know if he’s here by any chance?” 

She looked even more unnerved by the question for some reason, but she directed him to the break room at the end of the corridor and was gone before he could thank her. People working in IT had always been a bit strange so he wasn’t all that surprised by her quirkiness. Porky was exactly where she said he’d be though, nursing a cup of coffee and staring at nothing. He hadn’t intended to talk to Porky since he might be a suspect-accomplice but he looked genuinely out of sorts.

“Hey, Porky,” he said and sat down in front of him. “How are you holding up?”

“Lestrade? I thought you’d been…”

Greg smiled crookedly and nodded.

“Yeah, for two days. They didn’t specifically mention I couldn’t enter the building though.”

Porky gave a sad excuse for a chuckle and his face fell again.

“I’m so sorry. I really don’t know what happened. I’ve been wracking my brain since yesterday but it just doesn’t make sense. And if anyone should have been sacked, it should have been me. I’m really-”

Greg raised a hand, shaking his head.

“None of that. I wouldn’t mind if you took me through it though, so I can understand. I saw you signed the evidence in, so it hadn’t disappeared by then.”

“No, absolutely not. I know how important it was so I took special care - not that I don’t usually! -” he hurried to reassure. “But this case is different, right? It has a Jack the Ripper feel to it, if you see what I mean?”

Greg nodded grimly. He could only hope the Fury didn’t have as lengthy a career because at the speed with which he killed, he might soon become the most prolific serial killer in London and Greg could do without that on his resume.

“So you brought the evidence in?” Greg prompted.

“Yeah, I even lined them up there for Oscar to log them in properly but a few of them went missing. That blood sample amongst them. I just don’t understand how that’s possible. It was right there, right next to me.”

Greg frowned in thought, he hadn’t known about this. How could evidence go missing with people standing right next to it? Well, Sherlock could do it, master pick-pocket that he’d been…

“Was there anyone else around? Coming or going?”

“Well, sure. Like I told the Superintendent: the lab is always busy at that hour, people come and go for lunch break. Even Jenny came by. We had a lunch date.” Porky smiled a bit at that.

“Jenny? Atkins?” Greg wondered if there was another Jenny he should know of in the Yard, because the IT chick looked at least a couple of decades too young to be dating Porky.

“Yeah. You know her? She’s a sweet girl, brought me down my favourite indian takeout since I had a busy day ahead.”

Greg nodded, trying to smooth out the scowl that wanted to settle on his brow.

“How long have you two been dating?”

“Uhm… not long actually. A couple of weeks? Bumped into her one day down here-”

“In the labs?”

“Sure,” Porky chuckled. “You think you guys up there are the only one with computer problems? Poor Jen has to run all over the place to fix those damn machines.”

“Ha…” Greg’s laugh sounded weak even to his own ears, which prompted Porky to ask if he was alright. Greg excused himself, claiming the need for a cigarette even though he hadn’t smoked in a while, but it was always a good excuse for being jittery and he couldn’t tip Porky off. Miss Atkins seemed very suspicious all of a sudden. Porky might be too blinded with love -or lust- to see it, but if she’d been the only one of note to approach the missing evidence that close, that made her the prime suspect in his books. Plus, she could come and go anywhere she wanted in Scotland Yard. Hell, she’d even been in his office. And she had access to everything: all the computers, all the information, all the passwords… Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. IT personnel seemed to have way too much power over the rest of them mere mortals.

Greg hurriedly made his way up to his own floor, taking a detour to avoid going anywhere near his superior’s usual haunts. He told himself he wasn’t being paranoid about the IT chick, but if she was a Fury, hell, if she’d been the one to lock them in the fridge, he wanted to get John out of here as soon as possible.

  
  
  



	17. The Lady Stalker

John hunkered down behind the filing cabinet in the far corner. It left him a good view of the only exit while allowing him to pretend he wasn’t seeing the two police officers going at it like rabbits on the small table near the door. Urgh… to think of all the times he’d sat at that table… He might never feel clean again.

“Harder, harder!” the woman was begging, followed by the unmistakable acceleration of the slap of skin on skin followed by a long moan.

John rolled his eyes and continued taking pictures of the reports he’d ran off with when he’d heard someone come in. If he’d known he’d be stuck in here with those two, he would have just walked out and hoped they didn’t ask him any questions. He thought he’d be saved from this fate one time when the door was pushed open, but the couple slammed it shut again, giggling like two idiots at the interruption before pushing a chair against the door and going at it again, trapping him there with them. Really, there was a time and place for such activities. Wasn’t public sex a felony? What upstanding police officers they were…

Once he was done, John put the reports back together, but didn’t put his phone away, wondering if he should text Greg for help. However, there was a chance Greg hadn’t put his phone on silent, and receiving a text at the wrong time might get him in trouble. So John waited, trying to ignore the couple a few feet away who, he had to admit, had admirable stamina. He did his best to make sense of the information he had found, and hadn’t found. There was something strange going on in Scotland Yard. You wouldn’t know if you weren’t specifically looking for something, but when you were… Well, things didn’t add up.

“Open up!” came a loud voice, followed by banging on the door. 

John looked hopefully towards the door because it had sounded like Greg, but maybe it was just wishful thinking, and he didn’t want anyone thinking he’d been having a threesome in here so he stayed hidden. The couple was hastily putting their uniforms back together to the loud sound of pounding and more shouted orders from the other side when the chair admitted defeat and fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

John could only see a silhouette standing in the door, but that was unmistakably Greg and he sounded pissed, which had the two officers scampering off in no time. They were lucky Greg wasn’t working today, but they might not be so lucky when he returned.

“John?” he called softly, peering through the rows of filing cabinets.

“Right here,” John sighed, standing up and hastily picking up the files back before joining Greg. “My hero.”

“That bad?”

“I’m never using that table again. Did you find anything?”

Greg glanced around but didn’t answer. He silently led him towards the elevators instead, then suddenly changed his mind and took the stairs. Given his strange behaviour, he had obviously found something. John took his cue and didn’t say anything, following Greg in silence until they found themselves in a room very similar to the one he’d just been locked in moments ago: rows of filing cabinets and a small table by the door.

“Erm… I’m not sure whether I should feel flattered or offended,” John told him, doing his best to fight off the giggles that were bubbling up.

“We’re here to look up a file,” Greg said with a roll of his eyes.

“Okay, definitely offended. Whose file?”

“Jenny Atkins. It’s just a hunch, but...”

“A hunch is good,” John replied and spotted the right filing cabinet almost immediately as it was so close to the entrance, opening it and riffling through the files: Abbot H, Abbot S, Acton B, Allard N, Anderson P...

“Huh,” John said and skipped past it until he had to come to the conclusion that it just wasn’t there. 

“Are you sure?” Greg asked.

John rolled his eyes.

“Actually, I’ve had the same problem upstairs, several files are missing. Can’t you pull up her record from a computer?”

“She works in IT,” Greg replied.

“Ah. That explains a lot. So what do we do?”

“We could try pulling up her record anyway, but I have no doubt she’ll know the instant we do, and run for it if she’s as guilty as I think she is.”

John grimaced. They wouldn’t be able to arrest her since they weren’t investigating in any official capacity. They might even get arrested themselves for kidnapping or trespassing if they tried to stop her.

“Or we look her up on the internet, and tail her,” Greg offered.

That didn’t sound so bad. Of course, it might be a total waste of time, but it seemed more reasonable.

“Or... we could call Mycroft,” Greg suggested. “He could get us that in an instant.”

John’s face fell again at the mention of the elder Holmes - the only Holmes, his mind supplied bitterly. He wanted to refuse, but this was Greg’s career on the line.

“Okay. If you think that’s best way.” Greg didn’t move. “You want me to ask, don’t you?”

“Well, seeing as he’d do just about anything for you,” Greg muttered.

“Please tell me you’re not jealous of that git,” John asked with a not so fake shudder. “You know he’s just feeling guilty, right?”

Greg grunted in answer and John sent Mycroft a text, receiving a mail just a couple of minutes later. Well, at least he wasn’t being all condescending and rubbing his face in it. John opened the attached file, not seeing anything incriminating: she did work for Scotland Yard, had been hired only a couple of months ago, but the rest of the information was rather bland except for the fact that she had been widowed at a young age.

Greg breathed in sharply as if he’d been hit.

“What is it?” John asked, worried.

Greg pointed to a line on his phone, zooming in on it.

_ Maiden name: Bartolomeo _

Which explained why the reports concerning the surveillance on old Ben’s house could not be found in the record room. John would bet they weren’t in the computers either and maybe there had never even been any surveillance whatsoever on the old man’s house. The duplicates Greg had found on his desk were probably fake, signalling nothing of interest so he wouldn’t look any further into it. It was clever, and it would have worked if Greg had not started suspecting her.

“How did you find out?” John asked, noting as he zoomed out of her file that she was about Donovan’s size, so about the size of the Fury who had locked them in the fridge. He had half a mind to confront her right there and then.

“I bumped into her while I was visiting the lab.”

John’s eyes widened.

“I doubt she suspects I know. It was pure chance we crossed paths, but she was awfully nervous and obviously didn’t expect to see me today.”

John nodded but was more reassured by the heavy weight of his gun in his belt than by Greg’s words.

“Anyway, I talked to Porky and he said the two of them were dating.”

“Really?” John blurted out, then checked the woman’s picture again - still hot - and her date of birth. “A bit young, isn’t she?” he asked tactfully.

Greg chuckled in agreement, before adding she happened to drop by when Porky brought in the evidence, right before it had disappeared. John hummed. Everything seemed to be slotting neatly into place. It was almost too good to be true, but without Mycroft’s clue, they would never have thought to look into it in the first place, and all the proof they had for now was circumstantial at best.

“We should follow her,” John said. “She might lead us to the Fury.”

“Or stalk out old Ben’s house, for real this time. The Fury could be there and if they’re being careful, she won’t go there herself.”

“Or we won’t find the Fury in either case if they’re really being that careful.”

“So what do we do? Flip a coin? Or split again?” Greg asked.

John bit his bottom lip. Neither option should be dangerous, they would just be observing.

“I can tail the woman, she shouldn’t know me all that well, but I’ve got my disguise just in case.”

Greg raised an eyebrow at the admission.

“What? It’s useful,” John replied, patting his jacket pocket holding the woollen hat and fake glasses. The stolen Press card might be a bit too much in this instance though.

“Alright, I’ll stakeout Ben’s house. Nothing should be happening today, if he follows his MO, but you’d better be careful and not do anything stupid.”

“Same to you,” John said, feeling a knot of worry form in the pit of his stomach. “Phone on silent so we can keep in touch?”

“Right,” Greg said, taking his phone out and frowning at it, before turning it over for John to see. “Donovan sent pictures. It looks like the Fury is back to his normal MO. A drug importator this time, a big fish. Can’t say I’m really sorry, but...”

“It’s your job,” John continued for him.

Greg nodded and before he knew it, John was being drawn into the other man’s arms while he nuzzled his neck.

“Ah, so rooms full of filing cabinets really are an aphrodisiac for coppers,” John quipped.

Greg snorted and trailed kisses from his neck to his lips.

“Not that I’m complaining, mind you,” John added, but only got one last chaste kiss before Greg stepped back.

He looked a bit uncertain and overwhelmed, but given they were about to go looking for the Fury their separate ways, he had good reason to be. Maybe he should tell Greg he’d claimed his gun back, but that was bound to end up in an argument they had no time for right now. He’d probably be more worried than reassured about it anyway so John kept his mouth shut and followed him out before they parted ways at the stairs, one going up, the other down.

 

John found it surprisingly easy to blend into the decor. Maybe his face was still somewhat familiar so they didn’t question his presence. He was only hanging around the water-fountain or coffee pot most of the time anyway, or finding a waiting area or unoccupied desk from which he could observe Jenny Atkins. She did run about a lot, going from computer to computer to solve their mysterious ailments. She was a computer-doctor, John decided, and she did seem nice, always smiling and polite, which in turn made him feel bad for stalking her on the off-chance they were wrong. Of course he couldn’t follow her around all the time or it would be very conspicuous and she’d soon notice, but so far, he hadn’t seen her doing anything suspicious. Just a computer-doctor visiting sick patients.

John ran into Donovan a couple of hours later when he followed Atkins up to Greg’s floor. She looked surprised, then angry, then worried, and angry again. That woman was a firecracker and she was mostly pissed because John was completely ignoring her and hiding behind her to peer at Atkins who’d slipped into Greg’s office, then left with a bunch of papers.

_That little sneak_ , John thought. He’d bet anything she was getting rid of more evidence. He made to follow her but Donovan held him back. He didn’t have time to deal with the sergeant while the evidence was making a run for it and he was unable to tell her anything in the middle of the open space, not even sure he could really trust her anyway. Out of options, John simply took her hand and pulled her after him. That surprised her so much she shut up and let herself be pulled along. Once the surprise had cleared, she even went so far as to sneak around like John, following his target. John looked around a corner but Atkins had been stopped by someone and disappeared into an office. John flattened himself against the wall again and was greeted by Donovan’s scowl.

“I hope this isn’t how you normally woo women, Watson,” she muttered, keeping her voice low.

“What? You or her?” he asked cheekily.

“You know, I’m not sure which is worse.”

John checked the corridor but it was still empty.

“I’m putting a lot of trust in you here. You kind of took the decision out of my hands, so I hope I’m not about to make a huge mistake: that woman stole something from Greg’s office, and I need to know what it is.”

Donovan’s eyebrows rose.

“Please don’t ask any questions, and don’t tell anyone.”

She huffed.

“I’m probably crazy to agree, but okay. You’re doing this for Greg, right?”

John nodded and was glad when she left him to his ninja stalking through the oblivious Yarders. Atkins finally left the mysterious office, minus the papers. John hoped that wasn’t the shredder room, but no, it turned out to be an accounting office of some sort.

“Can I help you?” the woman inside asked.

“I hope so,” John answered with his most benign smile. “My colleague was just here but she forgot her paperwork, she must have put it down somewhere.”

“Oh dear,” the accountant said and shuffled papers and files around her desk. “Oh, look at that, they must have slipped into the bin. Well, she’s lucky you came looking. Is that all of them?”

John had no idea so he just nodded, thanked her and checked the corridor before going towards the exit. Atkins’ shift should be finished soon and it would be more discreet to pick up her trail from the outside than to follow her out. Once he’d found a good spot near the front entrance, John looked over the papers he’d stashed in his pocket, grinning when he saw the fake stakeout reports on Old Ben’s place.

“Bingo,” he said as he texted Greg what he’d found out.

  
  



	18. Things Get Stranger

**A tried to dispose of B’s stakeout reports. Must be fakes -J**

Greg grinned at the message. Finally something that proved they were on the right path and which could be used as hard evidence against at least one of the Furies.

**Still nothing on my end. -G**

Frankly, he was too old to be hiding for hours at a time in an abandoned garden shed and he didn’t particularly like spiders, but at least he had a good view of Old Ben’s house. He still couldn’t quite believe his old mentor was mixed up in all this, that he’d lied to his face and was responsible for his current situation. He felt more than a little betrayed, but still held the hope that it might be a coincidence, that he had nothing to do with the Furies and knew them without knowing what they were doing. But how likely was that? Old Ben was sharp as a whip. He might have made Chief Inspector or even Superintendent if he didn’t have such a mouth on him, but he’d ruffled too many feathers during his career.

**From the info M sent, looks like A is just going home. -J**

Greg sighed. The day hadn’t been a complete waste of time. In fact, they’d made quite a breakthrough, but he still felt pretty useless staring out at nothing out of the dusty window pane of the garden shed.

**Nothing here. -G**

But five minutes after he’d sent it, a car pulled into Old Ben’s driveway, the wheels screeching over the gravel, followed by a car door being slammed. Greg peeked out and noted the model and plate. He didn’t know the man who’d gone into the house but he seemed quite at home, going in without so much as knocking or wiping his feet. He was tall, muscular, brown hair, in his thirties. It was hard to make out much more from here but he snapped a picture of both the car and the man. It would be grainy and dark, but it was better than nothing. If only he could trust his colleagues, he’d have more people and better equipment to crack this case.

The stranger and Ben talked in the kitchen, or rather, argued judging by their movements, but soon the younger man sat down at the table, drinking something while Ben rolled out of view.

**A received a call, she changed direction. -J**

**Headed for the Underground. -J**

Greg wished he could have seen Ben. He’d bet his pay the old man had just been on the phone because the timing seemed too perfect for it to be a coincidence.

**She might be headed here. B has a visitor. -G**

He sent it. John wouldn’t receive it before he surfaced from the underground again, but at least he’d be up to date when he did. Suddenly, Ben’s front door opened and the stranger strode out, ignoring Ben’s pleas to come back inside as he climbed in his car. Greg hesitated. If that man was the Fury, he sure as hell wanted to follow him, but the chances of getting to his car in time and then following him without being noticed were slim to none. The last thing he wanted was to spook him off. Besides, this was a kill-free night if they respected the schedule, so no one should be in danger. They still had time to figure out who he was.

After the stranger had driven off, Ben rolled back inside and this time he could see he was on the phone since he had the courtesy to do so from the lit kitchen, but it seemed like he wasn’t getting anyone on the other end of the line. There was definitely some drama going on. Greg only hoped it wasn’t something silly like the stranger having forgotten to buy milk at the store or something. That would be embarrassing.

But no, twenty minutes later, Atkins let herself into Ben’s house, confirming their suspicions. But where was John? Did he lose her? Or get lost?

**Where are you? -J**

**Green garden shed, one house over. -G**

A minute later, John slipped in, a smoking take-away coffee in one hand and a greasy bag in the other.

“Thought you might be peckish,” John said, handing them over.

“You’re a lifesaver.”

John waited him out while he refueled, sitting quietly next to him on an old plastic crate and watching out the small window pane until he crumpled the greasy bag and threw it in a corner. This place was already a dump anyway.

“So did you see the Fury?” John asked.

Greg showed him a picture of the stranger.

“Might be him. He argued with Old Ben and then left in a hurry. I have his plate number so we should be able to find out who he is. Well, if Miss Atkins hasn’t deleted that too.”

“Wouldn’t deleting his plate number do more harm than good? You know, if it was run through by the Met for a small infraction like speeding, or a parking ticket?”

“I guess. I’m still wary Atkins will raise the alarm if we run it through.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. I followed her all day and she’s very sneaky.”

“Runs in the family, I suppose.”

“Do you think the guy you saw is a family member too?”

Greg thought about if for a moment then shrugged.

“Could be. Aren’t I glad Dimmock will be doing the honors?”

Old Ben and Atkins, who he supposed was his granddaughter, were still talking quietly over a cup of tea. Plotting, more like, Greg thought darkly. Was this how they decided who they were going to kill next? Heads bent together in a cosy kitchen with flowery wallpaper, cradling a warm cuppa... It was so ordinary and yet, it made the whole situation that much more sinister.

“I think we can trust Donovan,” John said out of the blue.

Greg looked at him in surprise. He’d thought John still resented the woman for her part in Sherlock’s fall. They’d been more cordial towards each other lately, but he didn’t expect to hear those words come out of his mouth.

“Really?” he asked with wry amusement. “How’s that?”

“Well, she kind of caught me stalking Atkins around Scotland Yard, but since she didn’t tip her off, I think we can assume she’s safe. Besides, we already have our three Furies,” John pointed out. “Atkins, Old Ben and the stranger.”

“The vengeful, the grudging and the implacable,” Greg recalled although their greek names were long forgotten.

John nodded, checked the window for any activity then continued.

“Serial killers rarely work out as a team, one will chicken out, or have the other turn on him, they'll make more mistakes, have more disagreements, that sort of thing. It weakens the bond they created through the act of killing together. The only time this bond strengthens instead is when the killers are members of the same family.”

“You really did your homework,” Greg said, feeling he could listen to John discourse on serial killers all night just to hear his voice, but his contemplation was interrupted by his phone flashing urgently with an incoming call from Sally. It was strange of her to call him on a day off. It’s not like he could even step on a crime scene or anything. “Yes?” he asked cautiously while John approached to hear the other half of the conversation.

“Oh, thank God!” Sally exclaimed.

“Err…”

“Where are you?” she cut in before he could ask her what was going on. “Is Watson with you?”

“Why?” he wasn’t about to tell her he was conducting an illegal stakeout of the Furies’ headquarters with him, even if John said she could be trusted. She’d bite his head off either way.

“Your flat, Greg! The Fury was here, he left a message, but you weren’t there and I thought- Anyway, you answered so- Wait, Watson  _ is _ with you, right?”

“Yes,” Greg huffed. “What’s the message?”

Greg thought he had a pretty good guess and wasn’t deceived when Sally told him  _ FINAL WARNING  _ had been spray painted over his living room’s wall. Fuck that bastard! He was never getting his deposit back.

“Are you at Baker Street? I actually wanted to talk to you.”

“No, we’re… out.”

“You’re still working the case, aren’t you? That’s why the Fury left you that message, he knows you’re on to him. I saw John at the Yard. I’m not an idiot, you know? I’m perfectly capable of putting two and two together.”

John nudged him. Atkins was leaving.

“Are you listening, Greg? You’d better get your sorry arse back here asap if you don’t want me to send a patrol after you. You’re putting yourself and Watson in too much danger.”

John snorted at that, but Greg sighed, and after a short exchange with John where they decided Atkins must be heading back home, Ben to bed, and the stranger to wash the paint off his hands, there was nothing else to be done from the garden shed.

“Alright, we’re headed back. There should be some tea somewhere if you want to make yourself comfortable.”

 

ooo

 

Greg had parked his car some way off. This wasn’t his first stakeout and without any backup from the Yard, he had been careful to the point of paranoid. Not enough, as it turned out. When John opened the passenger door, he froze, eyes wide, then put up his hands. From the shadows behind him appeared the Stranger, holding a syringe. 

“Yes, I'm sure you both know what will happen if this happens to find it's way into Dr Watson’s neck,” the man chuckled and patted John down, taking his wallet, keys and phone which he threw at him over the car. John's gun, he kept to himself. Greg had no idea John had taken it back, and how did he even know he'd left it with Mycroft? 

“Oh, yes. I know all about you, Watson. All those rumours about you. You could have been one of our targets, you know? You fulfill our criteria well enough.”

Greg furrowed his brow. John was nothing like the other people the Furies had killed. He was a good man, not a criminal, certainly not driven by money, or lust… what the hell was this lunatic talking about?

“What do you want?” John snapped.

“We warned you to leave us alone and you wouldn't listen. I think it's about time we gave you a little... incentive. You, Lestrade, just make sure we're not discovered and your boyfriend here might stay in one piece. Don't, and he might just be our next exhibition.”

“No!” Greg exclaimed at the thought of that maniac taking John hostage. Amongst the three Furies, he was by far the most instable and violent. “You can't just-”

The needle approached John’s exposed throat, too close for comfort, one little slip and… images of the Fury’s victims flashed through his mind. John was holding stock still, barely breathing but his eyes showed determination, not fear.

“You don't have a choice. Do as you're told and everything will be fine.”

“But I'm not even on the case anymore!”

The man snarled and John winced, trying to move away from the sharp metal tip.

“Then you better do a bang up job of sabotaging your colleagues.”

Greg watched as the Stranger manhandled John in front of him, needle at the ready, marching him in the direction they'd come from. He had no idea what to do. He couldn't just let him take John, but he couldn't stop him without risking John's life… Greg stood there, undecided for so long, even after they had disappeared from sight, that his phone beeped again with an impatient message from Sally.

**What's taking so long? You and Watson better not be off snogging somewhere.**

Greg cursed. If she suspected something was amiss, she would put John in danger. With one last glance down the road, Greg sat behind the wheelchair and took off. He hated himself, he should have done… something. Anything. But every time he thought about it, he'd see the glint of fury in the stranger’s eyes and the needle hovering so close to John's skin. He wasn't bluffing, of that he was sure. He would have killed John on the spot without a second thought. Maybe… if he could speak to Ben, he might be able to make him see reason, to let John go, to surrender himself. But first, he had to take care of Sally.

 

She was waiting for him in his own kitchen and she wasn’t alone. Greg sighed, ran his fingers through his hair. He was too tired for one of her lectures and yet, he’d never catch a wink of sleep as long as John was not by his side again.

“Why does this feel like an ambush?” he asked her, eyeing Dimmock warily.

He was in charge of the Fury case in his stead. Right now, he had no idea who the Furies were. Hell, he didn’t even know they were several of them… he knew nothing and Greg had to make sure it stayed that way until he got John back somehow.

“We were worried,” she snapped. “Have you even looked at the message the Fury left on your bloody wall?”

Greg turned around to stare at the dripping red letters spelling FINAL WARNING. It was every bit as cliché as he’d imagined. Maybe it would be scarier if he didn’t actually know what the perpetrator looked like. Not some faceless monster or vengeful god, not even a criminal mastermind, just a man, an angry man. He shrugged, which sent Sally in another spiral of shrieks that went way above his head. If he wanted a woman to nag at him for every little thing, he wouldn’t have divorced.

“Where’s Dr Watson?” Dimmock asked.

“Home, I expect,” he lied, convincingly he hoped, but John's belongings in his pockets weighed him down like a prisoner's ball and chain. “He checked with Mrs Hudson and no one visited his place so it should be safe enough if he stays away from me for a while.”

“Don’t remember him as the sort of bloke to stay out of trouble,” the other man remarked.

Greg narrowed his eyes at him. He didn’t recall the young D.I. being so sharp, although he had worked on a case or two with Sherlock and John if he remembered correctly, so he might know John better than he’d imagined.

“Yeah, well... we had a disagreement about that, alright? Now can you two get out of my hair, or was there something you wanted to tell me?”

“We’re not idiots, you know?” Sally said, crossed her arms and sat down, clearly stating she wasn’t going anywhere. “You two have been working the case on the side: disappearing God knows where, pissing off a serial killer apparently, and then John is playing the ninja at the yard following this woman around… Dimmock is in charge of the case as you bloody well know, so you’d better tell us what you dug up and we can end all this nonsense.”

“Nothing! Alright? We got nothing, just one wrong lead after another, a complete waste of time, and you’d better stop wasting yours too if you don’t want to get the sack next.”

“I don’t know what’s up with you Lestrade, but I’m putting you under surveillance, for your own protection. You can’t take that threat lightly,” Dimmock said waving a hand towards the garish graffiti. You might not take it seriously, but I’m not having a colleague die on my case. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” Greg snarked and watched him go.

Damn. When had little Dimmock grown a backbone? Sally, however, was glued to her chair with a mulish expression. She wouldn’t be so easy to get rid of.

“What happened?” she demanded and Greg feared she might know something about the Furies he was so desperate to hide, before she proved how very clueless she actually was. “Did you and Watson have a lovers’ spat?”


	19. Welcome to Hell

John followed the Stranger at needlepoint. He didn’t have a choice and he hoped to hell Greg understood he hadn’t had a choice either. Knowing him, he was probably recriminating himself over and over… He wouldn’t take well to obeying the Furies, abating criminals, sabotaging the investigation… all that for his sake. Greg would hate it, he might come to hate him for it. John had to do what he could to get himself out of this situation, if not for himself, at least for Greg.

But that damn needle...he couldn’t take the risk. Snake venom was not something he wanted to trifle with, ever. He’d much rather get shot again. He could deal with a bullet, would know what to do and what to expect. He'd have a fighting chance.

His wish came true when he was brought back to Old Ben’s house. The retired D.I. glared at the Stranger, berated him for acting on his own again and told him to put the syringe away before there was an accident, then he pulled a gun on him. John relaxed, to Ben’s amusement.

“Didn’t think a doctor would mind needles.”

“It’s not so much the needle than what’s in it.”

Ben nodded wisely then motioned for him to sit down on the kitchen chair in front of him.

“Looks like you and I are going to have a little chit chat, uhm?”

“Do I have a choice?” John asked because all things considered, he'd rather not. Except for the Stranger's name, he and Greg already knew everything about them.

The Stranger put a heavy hand on his shoulder and pushed him down in the chair.

“I'll take that as a no.”

John knew he had a mouth on him when he found himself in this sort of situation, and it had happened more often than he liked to admit in the past. If it wasn't because of Sherlock and his many, many enemies, it was usually an “invitation” from Mycroft. He never thought he'd have this sort of trouble around Greg though, but took it in stride and was sort of glad mouthing off still came to him as naturally as before. Sherlock’s death had changed him, but maybe not as much as he’d feared, or maybe it was just because he was healing, becoming more and more the man he used to be. He had Greg to thank for that. 

“So… you and Lestrade?” Ben asked.

“None of your damn business,” John growled.

“You made it our business,” Ben snapped, the kindly old man act forgotten for now. “If it wasn’t for you, Lestrade wouldn’t have cottoned on so quickly. I mean, he’s a good copper, don’t get me wrong, but he’s not especially bright unless he had that other weirdo doing his work for him. I should have guessed you would have picked up a trick or two as his sidekick and put Lestrade on the right path.”

John wasn’t sure what offended him the most, but he couldn’t let him disparage Greg like that.

“Greg is the one who found out about Jenny. I had nothing to do with it. Shows just how little you know.”

“Really?” Ben drawled with a thoughtful look. “A shame those idiots at Scotland Yard booted him off the case, then. Their loss, but it buys us enough time to finish what we started.”

“There’s actually an aim to all this madness?” John scoffed.

“Indeed there is. I think you’d understand, too. I heard tales about you, Dr Watson. Coppers can’t keep their pie holes shut to save their life, so my little Jenny heard about that cabbie that was mysteriously shot, just in time to save that friend of yours. But you were on the scene too, don’t think no one noticed, and you just happen to be an excellent marksman who has an illegal firearm in his possession. Tsk tsk… It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots…”

John pursed his lips. Nothing he said would convince the old man otherwise, but he had to wonder if Greg had heard these rumours and what he thought about it... Was he afraid to ask him about that night? What would he do if John told him the truth? Would he feel obliged to arrest him?

“Nothing? Not that I need you to confess, mind you, I’m already convinced you did it, but that man, the cabbie… trash of the worse sort, prying on innocent, defenceless people… playing with their lives and taking them away from their loved ones. You did everyone a service, right?”

John glared at him. He knew exactly where he was going with this and he didn’t like it.

“So you can sympathize with us, with our cause, can’t you? You understand, not like Lestrade. He always saw the world in black and white, quite unimaginative if you ask me. But you… You could join us, help us, make the world a better place.”

“I really couldn’t,” John muttered.

Their situations were nothing alike. He had killed the cabbie in defense of someone else, a friend, who was in immediate mortal danger. They did it as retaliation, revenge, investing themselves the powers of judge, jury and executioner. But what was the point of arguing that point? The old man probably wouldn’t see it that way. Not that John was going to tell him anything, he wasn’t stupid enough to admit to killing Hope and giving the Furies leverage on him.

“Well then, if you’re not with us, you’re against us. Simple as that. You can fill in a slot for the Furies if need be, you did after all, commit murder and escape justice.”

“Talk about double standards,” John mocked because that's exactly what they were doing as Furies. That earned him a whack on the temple by the Stranger. Worth it.

“Whatever works,” Ben replied with a sly grin.

Greg was right about his old mentor on one point: he must have been a bloody good copper. He was without a doubt the mastermind of this whole affair.

“Well, since you’re not so keen on talking… Freddie, be a good lad and take him to… the other place we arranged for. I’m still not entirely sure the good D.I. won’t sell us out. I’ll be joining you there with Jenny shortly.”

The Stranger, Freddie, nodded and yanked John up by his jacket, using his own gun against him. If Ben was the brain and Jenny the mole, this guy was the muscle and he wasn’t shy about showing it. John had no idea where he was being taken, but far enough from Ben's home since he was made to climb in the car. He worried it would send Greg in a panic when he realized the Furies had made off with him, but there was nothing to be done about that. The silver lining in this new development was that this gave him the perfect opportunity to escape. Just how did Freddie think he could keep him in check and drive at the same time? The other man opened the passenger door and pushed him in, making sure he didn’t hit his head on the way, the gesture unnecessary since he still didn’t have his hands bound. An automatism coppers had… Was Freddie a copper too? If so, Scotland Yard was in for a shock when this whole sordid affair came out.

Before John could finish that line of thought, he felt a tiny sting just under his jaw. His hand flew to the spot which started to burn and dull at the same time. He looked up to Freddie, holding a syringe, empty, the grin on his face…

“What did… you...”

He couldn't finish that sentence. His body was not obeying. He knew exactly what he had been injected with, the first part of the Fury's bite. It'll wear off he knew, but it depended on the dosage and in the meantime he was completely and utterly defenseless. Lucky for him, his abductor was just a mean sort, and not a psychopath or he would be in real trouble. John only had to remind himself not to panic. Hyperventilation was the last thing he needed. He focused on the road instead, it would help him if he knew where he was once he escaped.

Just outside of London, as it turned out. Far enough that they might feel safe from the police investigation, close enough that they could continue their gruesome work. An ordinary looking house, just like Ben's, but showing more signs of disrepair and looking like it hadn't been used in a while. John wondered how Freddie intended to get him into the house without anyone the wiser when he simply drove into a closed garage attached to the house. So easy. He just couldn't catch a break. After that, Freddie hauled him up over his shoulder, into the house, through the kitchen and down into the cellar.

Yep, he just couldn't catch a break.

No windows, only one door, locked by the sound of it, and no light because why would you waste electricity on your hostage and give him a chance to find an escape? It almost seemed as if this had been planned, which was not impossible knowing Ben. The man was very smart. Not Holmes-level smart, but enough to keep several steps ahead of the game. He'd probably prepared for every eventuality, so what did he  _ not _ know about him and Greg? What secret ace did they have up their sleeve?

Mycroft maybe? 

But he doubted Greg would go to him. They weren't close and he wouldn't want to jeopardize his security when he was held hostage. Rescue seemed a hopeless endeavour.  John was crap at planning so he would just wait for an opportunity and strike to rescue himself. He could only wait and see. This stretch of time was what he hated most: the feeling of powerlessness and uncertainty.

It didn't take too long after he'd been dumped onto the basement’s cold floor for the venom to wear off. To his credit, Freddie knew his stuff, but he'd had practice: six victims to be exact. John still felt a bit numb and experienced mild pins and needles in his extremities but it was still a huge improvement over the complete paralysis he'd been in before. 

Blind in the complete darkness, John felt around his prison with his hands. He'd only had a quick glance before, only time for Freddie to dump him on the floor like a sack of potatoes and leave. The floor was cold and a bit damp, uneven and the smell...earth, musty… it had to be an old cellar, dug out from the ground itself. John wondered if he might dig a tunnel to freedom like they did on the telly, but it probably depended on how long he was stuck down here. When his chilled fingers met the edge where floor met wall, John pulled himself up to a sitting position so the ground wouldn’t leech all the heat out of him. Not that the wall was much better, with stones protruding out here and there, but every little bit helped.

Later, how long was anyone’s guest, he heard muffled voices upstairs so he assumed the trio of serial killers had reunited, which wasn’t as bad as it sounded since the door soon opened and a mattress was tossed down, followed by a blanket and then a bucket. It didn’t take a genius to guess what that was for. Freddie appeared in the doorway next and made his way down, kicking the mattress out of the way.

“The old man is too soft on you, if you ask me.”

“Good thing no one cares what you think then,” John said.

Freddie kicked the bucket in his direction in retaliation but it landed just short of him. John really should have swallowed his chuckle as it was loud in the small, silent cellar.

“Think you’re funny, do you?” Freddie snapped, approaching to loom over him.

“No, I think  _ you  _ are actually, even if it’s not on purpose.”

John pressed his lips together. He really should stop mouthing off before the other man snapped. And suddenly, the situation wasn’t funny at all: he heard the low hissing coming from Freddie. In the gloom, he hadn’t noticed the small aquarium he was carrying. He felt the blood drain from his face. Surely, they were not going to keep the snakes down here, with him?

“What’s that?” Freddie asked with a feral grin. “Don't you like my little friend here?”

He rattled the glass box, eliciting angry hissing from inside. John tried to look nonchalant but failed miserably judging by the mocking laugh that followed.

“Well you're fresh out of luck then because we're keeping them down here with you. Can't risk anyone peeking inside and seeing them. Bit of a giveaway that. But I warn you, you mess with them and I'll visit your boyfriend, make  _ him _ pay for your mistake. Understood?”

John nodded. There was  no way he was going near that thing anyway. 

“In fact, you try anything funny and Lestrade will get the beating of his life. Same goes for him. I almost hope he does something stupid so I can knock that cocky look off your face for good, see how funny you find that.”

Another nod. He didn’t need to be riled up anymore than that. John watched Freddie set up the tank near the stairs, plugging it in so the snake got its dose of light and heat. The blasted thing was better treated than he was. Jenny came down with a second smaller tank and set it down next to the first, then a third joined the other, and she left without a word, letting Freddie take care of the rest. She didn’t even spare him a glance, it was as if he didn't exist, as if their wasn't a man imprisoned in her cellar. Weird. The young woman had seemed lively, bubbly even at the Yard most of the time, chatty with colleagues, moon-eyed with Porky… very different to the shell of a woman he had just seen. There went his idea of trying to win her over to free him.

 

And so he was left, alone in the dark cellar. Or so he would have preferred, but the three venomous snakes guarding the stairs reminded him quite frequently that they were there with him. Despite the comfort of a mattress and the warmth of a blanket, John could not catch a wink of sleep that night.

 


	20. Back to Black

Sally had been a pain to get rid off. Greg knew she meant well, that she was concerned about him, and even about John now that she got to know him a bit, but mostly, she worried about their alleged failing romance. Greg could have set her straight but it was too good an excuse to pass up. This way, it wouldn’t look strange John suddenly wasn’t by his side anymore, so he listened to her relationship advice and promised to do his best. It would be funny if the situation wasn’t so dire. He finally pretexted exhaustion and a headache and who knows what else he’d added just so she would leave. She did get the hint though.

Outside, Greg could see the security detail Dimmock had allocated him, but being a D.I. for so long, he knew exactly how they worked and he was on his turf, so he changed clothes to the casual clothes he never wore for work, turned off the lights one at a time, his bedroom last, then left through the fire escape under cover of darkness. He did his best to be nothing more than a shadow all the way to Ben’s place, his heart pounding faster and harder the closer he got. John was there. A hostage. It made his blood bowl and he wondered for a moment what he would be capable of to rescue John from those lunatics. Given the chance, he might hurt them. Even Ben in his wheelchair, even Jenny… But the fire died as soon as the house came into view: dark and silent.

They had left. Of course they had. How stupid could he be? They'd left and taken John with them. It made sense, but he still had to make sure, so he broke into the house, not as elegantly as a certain consulting detective, but they didn't teach that sort of skill at Scotland Yard. 

Ten minutes later, he was out and making his way to Jenny’s flat. This one was trickier to break into because of the neighbours but he managed thanks to the late hour, only to come to the same conclusion.

He had lost John Watson.

He meandered in the streets for a while, until he got his emotions back under control. He couldn't break now. John needed him. He would have to do as the Furies ordered until he found a way to get him back. His subconsciously must have come to that conclusion before him because he'd already been headed back home… to his front door. He didn't want to have to explain why he'd sneaked out and did an about face that was as subtle as the Queen on her balcony. It worked though and he sneaked back in the way he'd left, wondering, not for the first time, just how useless the security detail was.

 

Greg slept. He didn't understand how because he was worried sick about John. Exhaustion might explain It, but it had done him good in the end. He had a plan for today. He would hear from John if it was the last thing he did.

Returning to the yard after his suspension, he was surprised to learn the super had agreed to let him back on the Fury case, not as the lead inspector, but Greg wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth and if his superior really thought he'd mind working under Dimmock or find it demanding… well, he had another thing coming. This was perfect.

Greg used the pretext of needing to catch up on the last victim to find his prey. Not difficult since she'd apparently been tasked with keeping an eye out on him. Their eyes met, unflinching. There was more to her than they'd first thought: she was very good at acting normal, but there was something irreparably broken about her. She didn't even try to free when Greg stalking up to her, grabbed her wrist and pulled her after him, looking for a secluded place and defending the archives would do nicely. If his colleagues could have sex in here in the middle of the day, he could damn well use it to threaten one.

“Where is John?” he growled, not letting go of her wrist.

“Not hurt, if that's what you want to know,” she answered in a monotone, almost sounding bored. She didn't even try to free her arm, so Greg finally let go of it, disgusted by the contact. “Not yet, anyway, but if you try something like this again, he will be. You pay for his… lapse in judgement, and he pays for yours.”

Greg Scowled. Just when he thought he couldn't hate them more than he already did.

“But don't worry,” she added. “Ben likes you for some reason so I'm sure your friend will be safe as long as you do as you're told.”

“I want proof,” Greg said and on this, he wouldn't back down. It was hostage negotiation 101. Even he knew that. “Now. If you can't prove John is well and alive, I'm arresting you on the spot and sending a squad after your dear grandpa and that other lunatic.”

Jenny blinked, then took out her cell phone and dialed. It took forever.

“Put him on the phone,” she said without preamble, which was fine him.

She gave him the phone, but it took a few minutes before a groggy voice answered.

“Yeah?”

John. His voice lifted all the weight his conscience had been accumulating since last night - and Jesus! Had it only been that long? Greg felt like he'd aged a decade since John had disappeared from view with the Stranger.

“John, it's me. I had to know you were alright.”

“Greg? How did you… Oh! Jenny. Of course. You're a genius!”

“So you're alright? They're treating you well?”

“Well, I've got unusual roommates who hiss all night, and Freddie’s a bitch- Ow!”

John's cry of pain made him see red but he knew he had to rein in his anger for now.

“That's enough,” came the Stranger’s rough voice and the line went dead.

“Happy?” Jenny asked, snatching her phone back and putting it away. “Now you'd better get on with your job.”

She left without a backwards glance but Greg needed time to cool off and appear normal. He also needed to think about what John had told him in those two short sentences. One: he was locked somewhere with snakes which had to be absolute torture for him. Did they know about his weakness? It's not like John advertised it. Two: Greg now knew the Stranger’s name. John, that brilliant, brilliant man had not only found it out but managed to pass on the information to him despite being their prisoner. Maybe he could look into it discreetly, find out where he lived to scout out his place too.

With that new shred of hope, Greg left the archives to find out where Dimmock was at in his investigation now that he was in charge. Not much, which was good as it meant he didn't have to sabotage the investigation yet. As for ferreting out this Freddie character, that proved more difficult to accomplish between Sally’s hawk like gaze and Jenny’s neverending coming and goings. He had two ways of identifying him now, his name and his license plate, except that he lacked the means to do so. He wasn't a computer whiz by any stretch of the imagination, yet he had to either hack into the DMLV or check the Scotland Yard database but under Jenny’s radar, so he had no idea how… Mycroft!

He'd do anything for John, and Greg just so happened to have John's phone. He knew John wouldn't mind posing as him for this. He did, however, have to text from a stall in the lavatories to escape the two women or anyone else who might notice he was using a phone that wasn't his own. 

 

**Any connection between Jenny Atkins and a certain Freddie? Maybe under licence plate LS22ETG? -J**

 

He tried to emulate John's style of texting to Mycroft, but most of them were along the lines of “Piss off” and “Go eat cake”, amongst the more polite, and as far as his phone’s history would go. He didn't think that would go over well while asking the man for a favour. The answer was prompt, as usual.

 

 **Brother** **in law by the name of Frederic Atkins. Details attached. Case going well? -MH**

 

Greg wondered if now was an appropriate moment to send a “piss off” sort of text, but decided to ignore the man instead and open the file which had been sent with the message and which… yes! An address. Greg committed it to memory then tried to figure out the best way to sneak out of the Yard, something he'd never had to do before. 

From the lavatories he dashed to the staircase. That was Sally taken care off since she was still in the middle of the conference room with Dimmock, trying to put pieces of the puzzle together to make sense of the Furies. Jenny, on the other hand, could be anywhere and he had to hide more than once in a room, even a cupboard once, upon hearing the sharp clicks of heels down the corridor. She couldn't stop him from leaving, but she might tip off Freddie and he, in turn, might take it out on John.

He had to be smarter than that, he had to be a shadow and he felt very silly doing all of this spy nonsense right until the point he was intercepted at his car by… not policemen, their suits were too smart. Men in black? And then it hit him: Mycroft. His stomach turned to lead. Did he suspect? Was it even worth the effort to lie to the man? He was better than a frigging lie detector. Or maybe this was a good thing. Mycroft could help. He had ressources Greg could only dream of, although he wasn't entirely sure what the man's job was exactly. As long as the Furies didn't suspect anything, John would be safe.

Greg started to sweat. What if they were watching him and Mycroft had just signed John death warrant?

“Well I've never seen a man look so guilty before,” Mycroft said when he was “helped” into a sleek black car. He just looked at him after that, dissecting all he'd done in the last twenty four hours, knowing him, which couldn't go in his favour.

“Where, pray tell, is John Watson?”

“Home?” he answered only half-heartedly.

“Do not waste my time, Detective Inspector. He is not at 221B, nor at your place, he has not been seen since last night and yet, you are in possession of his phone. Now tell me: Where. Is. John. Watson?”

Greg's facade crumbled. It wasn't much of one to begin with, but now, he let his head fall in his hands, praying he was making the right call by trusting Mycroft.

“The Furies have him. That guy, Freddie, took him last night, and they'll hurt him if I don't obey.”

“So you've cracked the case.”

Greg nodded even if it wasn't a question.

“And you're searching for John at their place of residence.”

He nodded again and Mycroft scoffed.

“Futile, but I'll send someone at this man's home if you insist. No, I'm afraid they must have gone into hiding somewhere. We'll find them.”

“We?” Greg asked and was waved off.

“Return to Scotland Yard and try to act normal.”

“But-”

“No but. That is the only way to ensure John's safety. I'll take care of the rest.”

Greg was manhandled out of the car, but he didn't care, he wasn't sure whether to feel anxious or relieved now that the burden had been taken out of his hands… no, not relieved. Not as long as John wasn't safe. He'd rather be doing something to help get him out of there so that his only way to help was by doing nothing seemed a cruel twist of Fate.

He did as he was told though. Sally seemed surprised that he was suddenly so complacent but didn't push the issue, probably pinning it on his imaginary issues with his boyfriend. The day seemed to drag on and there was no news from Mycroft. He could at last keep him updated, the berk. He swore that if he had found John and not informed him the next instant, he would stick his bloody brolly where the sun don't shine. At the end of the day, he couldn't take it anymore and texted Mycroft from his car.

 

**Any news?**

 

**No. -MH**

 

Greg stared at the screen and suddenly understood why John found the man so aggravating. He was sorely tempted to give him a piece of his mind himself but knew that wouldn't help any. Ignoring his security detail tailing him, he made for home, didn't bother to flick the lights on and let himself fall in his favourite armchair with a loud sigh.

“About time,” came a deep voice from the shadows of his couch.

Greg jumped out of the cushions of his chair and stepped back, fumbling to get his gun free, although what good it would do against a ghost was anyone's guess.

“Good call on not turning the lights on,” his visitor continued, unaffected by his reaction and the gun now pointed at him. “Did Mycroft tell you to expect me?”

Greg let his gun down, words struggling to make it past his throat.

“Sherlock? How… you're alive?”

“Obviously.”

Shock let place to fury. What kind of an answer was that? Did he have any idea what he put John through? How he had shattered when his best friend had fallen, right in front of his eyes? How he always had this hollow look in his eyes whenever his name was mentioned, even now, when he'd started to heal?

Something in Greg snapped and he punched Sherlock square in the jaw.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	21. Bit Not Good

By his calculations, he had been there only two days, but they had easily been the two worst days of his life, and that was saying a lot. Freddie might not have known he was scared shitless of snakes at first but it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure it out, and once he did, he took great delight in feeding the snakes in front of him, rattling their tanks and on one memorable occasion wondering aloud how one of them had gotten out. All in good fun, or so he said. The man might be a bit of a psychopath after all, just on a very, very small scale. A bully, in sum, and John couldn't abide bullies.

To help him not go insane, he thought of Greg mostly. He was the only good thing that had happened to him in a very long time, and even if memories of him, of them together, made him melancholy, he'd rather than than go mental.

Things changed on that second day though. First, Freddie came clambering down the stairs and thrust a phone at him. He didn't know what to expect but certainly not Greg's gruff voice. Of course he'd found a way to get in contact with him. Take that, Ben. That'll show you just how smart Greg is. John couldn't resist sharing Freddie's name without seeming to. Insulting him in the process was just a bonus albeit one that got him a vicious kick in the side and the phone snatched away sooner than he’d liked.

The following afternoon, and he only knew it was about that time because it had been a while since he'd been given lunch, Freddie stormed down the stairs again, hauled him up by the collar and shouted in his face.

“What is he up to? Your faggot boyfriend! What the fuck are you two planning?”

“How would I know?” John gritted out. “I'm stuck here in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Freddie slammed him against the wall, dislodging dirt and stones which cascaded down his back before he dropped him like so much rubbish.

“We warned ‘im, warned you… Don’t mess with us… going through my stuff...” Freddie muttered, pacing the floor again and again. 

John had no idea what had happened, but Freddie was obviously not himself. Now that he could see him better, he’d come down without his gun out. It was too good an opportunity to pass up so he pounced on the man, tackled him to the ground and landed one good punch in his face before Freddie bucked him off with one twist of his hips and straddled him to punch back, but John saw it coming and dodged. Unfortunately, he didn’t see the second one coming right for his eye, but he could take it, he’d known worse and so he hit back immediately, once, twice. Freddie staggered back, getting back to his feet but looking dazed, so John made a mad dash for the stairs, the adrenalin helping him ignore the lighted tanks buzzing softly. He was halfway up the rickety stairs when his legs were pulled back and he fell, his face becoming quite intimate with the rough wooden planks beneath him. He knew he’d lost his chance then, too dizzy to fight back properly. He tried, but Freddie was bigger, stronger and meaner. Only a shout coming from up the stairs stopped his blows.

“Freddie, stop it you dimwit! Just what the hell do you think you’re doing down there?!”

His attacker jumped off him, his anger gone as quickly as it had come, and there might even have been a hint of regret there, but it didn’t stop him from leaving him lying bloody on the cold floor while he fled upstairs. Bastard. And John still had no idea what all that had been about to begin with. What was Greg doing out there? Was he closing in on the Furies? But how? Last he knew, Greg wasn't even on the case and had no allies… 

Oh God, but his face hurt too much to think about… Greg! Fuck! John hoped Freddie wasn’t going to take his escape attempt out on Greg. That was the deal, right? Oh God! He hadn’t thought… He’d seen an opportunity and taken it without a second thought. John closed his eyes tight, he hurt everywhere, but maybe he deserved it if Greg got hurt because of him. 

And then there were the hisses. All the commotion had rattled the snakes so much, they were more agitated than usual. John couldn’t take it, even in his state, so he crawled towards the mattress, onto it and even managed to pull the blanket over his ears, feeling like a kid hiding from the monster under the bed.

 

John had slept right through to the next day. That was the only silver lining to a good beating, but all things considered, he’d rather not sleep. Freddie’s feet stomping down the stairs were what woke him up, as usual. He carried a platter of food in one hand and his gun in the other, obviously not wanting to repeat yesterday’s mistake. As he approached, John could see through the perpetual gloom of the cellar that he had managed to give him one hell of a shiner, but he didn’t taunt the man about it. Instead, he reached for the platter Freddie had set down for him. He had no appetite but the cup of tea was a heaven-sent and a first in all his captivity. He glanced curiously at Freddie but he’d already left, without his usual barbs… Strange. Maybe it was his way to apologize, or more likely, Ben had grounded his wayward pupil.

He wasn’t sure how Freddie fit in all this yet. Ben sometimes called him son, but John knew he had none, and Jenny seemed indifferent towards him. On the other hand that seemed to be her default setting. John sighed and enjoyed his cuppa. He’d know soon enough, when Greg came to save him on his white horse, his very own knight in shining armour. He giggled at the thought. It probably wasn’t so far from the truth though since Greg was his only ticket out of here now. Not a chance Freddie would let his guard down around him anytime soon now.

Except… Freddie was the one who was most likely to act out their Fury masquerade, so that meant… tomorrow night… he’d be gone and he would have another chance to escape. Ben should be easy enough to dodge and Jenny was no match if he managed to surprise her. A slim possibility but it meant there was still hope and that’s all he needed for his tea to taste better.

 

Later, the concept of time became more and more an abstract concept the more time he spent in the gloom, but it was some hours later when Freddie came down again with another steaming cup of tea. But then, to his horror, he opened one of the tanks, the one with the darkest snake, and grabbed the scaly horror just behind its head before taking it out. John thought he was going to faint and vomit simultaneously at the sight, but he couldn’t look away. He was too afraid that if he so much as blinked, the snake would disappear from Freddie’s hands, it would be somewhere close, getting closer, slithering up his legs, coiling around his arm, ready to sink its fangs into his flesh…

His lungs reminded him he needed to breathe so he did, but his eyes were still riveted to the disturbing spectacle before him: Freddie made the snake bite into a pot covered by a pale rubber film to collect its venom, then dropped the snake back in its tank and repeated the process with the other two. John was going to have nightmares for the rest of his life, there was no way to unsee that.

He belatedly realized what it meant after Freddie had left with his new poison collection in hand. His whole plan for escape hinged on another person’s life. He dearly hoped Greg found him before that. Only one more day until they resumed their killing spree if he wasn't mistaken.

 

Freddie’s heavy footsteps again, but between the beating, lack of food and sleep, John was honestly too out of it to care. Maybe it had all been done on purpose, to wear him out, crush his spirit… his jailor was coming for  _ him  _ too, not for the snakes, which couldn't be a good sign. John struggled to get up and away when his voice stopped him.

Not Freddie’s voice.

“John,” the voice insisted. “John look at me.”

He did, but what he saw as he peered through the thick shadows didn't make any more sense than the voice. More people were clambering down the wooden steps. So loud. One could be Jenny and the other… but how did Ben get down here. He wasn't faking his wheelchair… he'd checked... Something was wrong, John knew, with his head: he was sluggish, had hallucinations, both visual and auditory…

“John!” another voice but this one made sense and made him feel safe and happy.

“Greg?” he asked uncertainly because there was a chance he might be a hallucination like the other one.

“Yes, it's me,” he kneeled on his mattress making it dip and John finally smiled and reached out for him, relieved, but Greg was having none of it, he froze and looked angry. John wondered if maybe he'd dreamed up their whole relationship, created it out of the need to block out those damned snakes. Weird but not impossible.

“What the hell did they do to you?” Greg growled and touched his face, softly. 

Relieved this was real, John leaned into his touch, his warm hands, ignoring the pain it caused because human contact and warmth trumped a split lit and bruises right then.

“Drugged, obviously,” the impossible voice said.

Greg nodded, as if he'd heard the diagnostic too. John agreed with it too after some thought. Freddie had not been tender in manhandling him to the ground and he might have hit his head a few times, but not enough for a concussion. How then? No idea... too late now to do anything about it anyway. He really was a terrible patient to his inner doctor, or was it just the drugs? At least, it explained the hallucination: he was high.

“Come on, let's get you out of here,” Greg decided. “You can walk, right?”

John nodded, affronted by the idea and pulled himself up before stumbling from a dizzy spell. Thankfully the apparition caught him.

The solid apparition.

Not an apparition.

John's eyes grew wide as he looked into Sherlock's ice blue eyes, so different from the last time he'd seen them: still, staring into nothing, blood sliding around them like the red curtain being pulled at the end of a performance.

John recoiled and stepped back, walking on Greg's feet, who’d been standing close, ready to catch him. John looked up at Greg, his eyes warm yet furious, but less painful to gaze into than Sherlock's inquisitive, hopeful ones.

“He's there, isn't he?” John asked in a whisper, darting a glance back.

He had to check, make sure. Greg glimpsed at Sherlock and nodded, his shoulders drooping. John turned to look at Sherlock anew, his best friend who he'd mourned for what had felt like an eternity. Not dead.

With a cry worthy of a barbarian warrior, John lunged himself at him, and managed to land one good punch on his jaw before the dizziness returned tenfold and he dropped to the side, feeling sick. A pathetic attempt, it didn't even make him feel better. Greg was there to help him up, put himself between him and Sherlock and the hissing monsters, then walk him up the stairs and out into the world. A cacophony of lights, sirens, chatter, flashes… it was all too much. He leaned into Greg, safe, his refuge.

  
  
  
  



	22. Green Eyed Monster

Greg was having a hard time adjusting: Sherlock wasn’t dead, was, in fact, working on a case with him again and being just as insulting as ever. Worse, he told him he had only shown himself to him because he needed information only he had. To be frank, the only reason Greg tolerated Sherlock at this point was because he needed him to find John. Plus he’d already punched his lights out and it had been so satisfying he was hoping to get another go at it.

Despite explaining what had happened during his… absence, Sherlock pretended not to understand why he was so angry and thought John would be delighted to see him alive again.  _ Obviously.  _ But Greg had mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, John should be happy to see his best friend wasn’t dead, on the other… John was going to feel so betrayed. He was loyal and honest to a fault, so what Sherlock did, the lies, the manipulations, the deceit and grief it caused… No, that wasn’t going to go over well.

If Greg had to be honest, he was also a bit apprehensive about their reunion. They’d always been so close that he wondered where it would leave him. Wouldn’t he become the third wheel? Superfluous? Except for sex that is, but he hoped to God that’s not all there was between them because his feelings for John had only grown since getting together.

“Are you even listening Lestrade?”

“Hu?”

Sherlock scoffed at him and pointed at the door to the house they’d been surveilling for the past hour. A head peeked out, looked around and, deciding the coast was clear, ran out to the car and back again.

“That’s him,” Greg said with absolute certainty. “That’s Fred Atkins.”

“Told you,” Sherlock said smugly. “If you want to find someone, follow the drugs.”

“They’re prescription medicine, Sherlock, not drugs. How did you even know? It’s not under Ben’s name.”

“Well, his daughter doesn’t have a heart condition so it wasn’t such a huge leap,” he sighed. “Nothing’s changed, I see.”

_ Everything’s changed _ , Greg thought but didn’t voice it less Sherlock started on a rant again just when they needed to act. John was there, he was sure of it now. He looked at all the windows, wondering behind which he lay.

“When are we moving?” he asked.

He couldn’t hold in place. He’d smoke a cigarette if he could, even if that meant a lecture by the good doctor later on, but it might give away their position.

“You said they’re armed and there are two of them in there: Ben Bartolomeo and Frederic Atkins, both of whom have training in firearms.”

Greg nodded, not happy that another copper from Scotland Yard was involved. He’d been suspended a while back for undue violence on a suspect too, which wasn’t going to go over well with the public. Good thing it was all in Dimmock’s hands now, because he would hate to have to deal with that media circus.

“We’ll send in Mycroft’s men first then and they’ll release them to your colleagues. Unless you want to have a word with them?”

Greg thought about his old mentor, his lies, Freddie and the way he’d threatened and probably hurt John. He shook his head. No good would come out of it if he had them in front of him. John needed him. They waited in tense silence for the all clear from Mycroft’s team and rushed into the house though the front while the Furies were being taken out back. He could still make out the squeak-squeak of Old Ben being wheeled away but resolutely ignored it and looked around. Where was John? Sherlock seemed to have an inkling because he disappeared through the kitchen and was already through another door before Greg could get his bearings.

The second door led down, into a black hole. The anger he had tried to contain redoubled and he stomped down the steps. The old cellar would have been pitch black if not for the light from three snake tanks. The sight of them ratcheted his anger up another notch and he almost turned around to beat the living shit out of the Furies, but he could also hear Sherlock’s frantic voice which made him panic enough that he ran down the rest of the way to rush to John’s side.

His face was a mess and who knew what else his clothes were hiding. Greg tried not to show his anger, John didn’t need it and he was already acting strangely. His reaction, or lack thereof, towards Sherlock being the most preoccupying. Greg had expected joy or anger, not this complete apathy. Sherlock deduced he had been drugged but that was not all of it. He wasn’t high, just a bit out of it.

“He’s there, isn’t he?” John asked him in a whisper, darting a glance back at Sherlock after he’d caught him in his arms when he stumbled.

Greg looked at Sherlock and his puppy-eyes and was tempted to answer that no, he wasn’t. It only lasted a few seconds and he knew it was simply out of jealousy, because he didn’t want to relinquish John to him, but what good would it do? Greg nodded, accepting his fate. But then John went and punched Sherlock on the jaw and Greg hid a smile. Now, the berk would have a matching set.

Once outside, Sherlock had to take off discreetly, returning to the shadows. He was, after all, still dead to the public eye and apparently would be for a while yet, but he told them to meet him at Baker Street. Greg noticed John kept his eyes on Sherlock’s form right up to the moment he disappeared from view, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was real and needed constant proof that he was. But then Dimmock arrived with Sally in tow, both looking cross and heading straight for them.

“Brace yourself, John. Here come the other Furies.”

To his relief, John chuckled. Despite what they’d done to him, he wasn’t broken. He would pull through, as he always did. He truly was a force of nature.

“You could’ve told us,” Sally berated him, whacking him on the head with what looked to be the arrest warrants.

“Moles in the Yard. I couldn’t risk it,” he explained with a glance at John.

Mycroft must have smoothed over any rumpled feathers between his spooks, Scotland Yard and himself, which would make the falling out of the case so much easier on him and John. Sally looked over at John critically, asking if he needed an ambulance but he declined.

“I just want to go home,” he muttered.

Home? To Baker Street? To Sherlock?

Greg shook his head. Jealousy was the last thing John needed.

“I’ll take care of him,” he said.

“You’ll both have to come in soon for depositions-”

“I think they know the drill, Sally,” Dimmock interrupted and waved them off, wishing John a prompt recovery.

 

Greg drove him to Baker Street, unsure what to say or do. In all the time he’d known John, he’d never felt this uncertain before. His boyfriend - and wasn't that a concept which still took some getting used to - was deep in thought, so much so he didn't stir when Greg parked the car and unbuckled his seatbelt.

“John?”

“Oh,” he blinked, gave him a weak smile. “Sorry. It's just… everything. It's a lot to take in.”

Greg nodded. The Furies, the kidnapping, the snakes, Sherlock… He was holding up admirably, considering.

“If there’s anything I can do… you know… I'm here,” he offered.

In truth he wasn't sure whether John wanted him to leave or follow him to his place to confront Sherlock. Greg was planning on taking his cue from John but he wasn't letting much on. He walked John to the door anyway because he found it difficult not to see him, touch him, hear him drawing one breath after another… he might not leave unless John told him to bugger off.

At the door, John stopped to take a deep breath, as if he was preparing to go into battle. Greg handed him his keys back and the door opened with an ominous creak that would have been funny if the situation were not so serious. What next? Would they be getting a sinister storm as foreshadowing, lightning at the great reveal and rain as the hero walked out on his lonesome for the end credits? How had his life turned into this? Oh right: Sherlock, the worst drama queen he'd ever met.

Coincidentally, it was Mrs Hudson’s scream as it tore through the door, startling them and a few passers-by, that set the scene. He exchanged a glance with John, then they ran all the way up to his flat… their flat… John and Sherlock’s flat. Mrs Hudson had dropped her cleaning supplies in the entrance, one hand on her heart as she stood frozen, staring at Sherlock. John was by her side to help her sit down while apologizing for not having anything strong enough to offer her for her fright.

“Are you trying to kill her?” Greg hissed at Sherlock.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Mrs Hudson doesn’t scare so easily.”

“Look at her! Just look at her, Sherlock.”

An eyeroll later, he did, but his eyes lingered on John more than his landlady.

“She thought you were dead. She grieved for you. You can’t just show up without warning and expect her to take it well.”

“Are we still talking about Mrs Hudson here?”

Greg growled in frustration and walked up to John to see if he could be of any help. Sherlock did not seem to want to understand that his not-dead trick was not clever, that it had hurt people and that he shouldn't expect applause or praise from them for his fraud of a resurrection, all of which made it difficult to be happy to see him.

“Why don’t you make yourself a cup of that excellent herbal tea, uhm?” John suggested with a nudge towards the door. “Have an early night. It won’t seem so terrible tomorrow, right? Everything looks better in the morning. Greg? Would you mind?”

Greg looked between him and Mrs Hudson, wishing he could cut himself in two, but eventually took Mrs Hudson’s arm and helped her slowly down to her own flat.

“I knew you’d find our John, Detective Inspector. Didn’t doubt it, not for a second. Poor soul, always getting himself into all this trouble, he really doesn't deserve it, and oh, his poor sweet face, all banged up. I think I have a balm somewhere for that. It's made with plants, you know, very natural... You'll have to help him apply it of course.”

She paused, looked up at him expectantly. He had a feeling she wasn't just talking about the blasted balm because she had a very shrewd look about her.

“I'm not leaving,” Greg said with the solemnity of a promise.

If he couldn't take his cue from John, Mrs Hudson was the next best thing. She knew John and Sherlock and their dynamic more than anyone else.

“Good, that's good, dear. Now, I'll be fine but you better get back up there before John throws Sherlock out the window. Lord knows one fall is enough.”

Greg blinked at her and nodded. Maybe Sherlock was right and she was made of sterner stuff than she looked. It had taken him a few hours before he could even look at Sherlock without getting angry and here she was saying his name without the slightest quiver, as if he'd never left. She had already forgiven him. He wondered if he should too.

 

Upstairs, tension was as thick as the superintendent. John sat in front of Sherlock, arms crossed. Defensive. Sherlock sat in “his” armchair, filling the empty slot like a puzzle piece, his whole body language open: arms, hands, legs, hell, even his expression was as unguarded as he'd ever seen it.

Now, where did  _ he _ fit in all this? In the kitchen, out of view? On John's lap? No, that seemed a bit too desperate a way to stake his claim… Greg stood in the doorway, indecisive, waiting… but minutes ticked by and neither man spoke. They stared at each other like two boxers in a ring, assessing, calculating…

“You might as well take a seat, Lestrade. This might take a while,” Sherlock said without breaking eye contact with John.

John turned away however and looked at him, his gaze softening.

“Mrs Hudson alright?”

Greg nodded.

“She asked me to keep you from chucking the berk out the window.”

Sherlock smirked, as smug as a dragon on his pile of gold.

“Told you.”

Greg scowled. He was lucky she was so forgiving.

“I think she just doesn’t want her bins to get flattened again,” Greg added and to his surprise, John chuckled, or something approaching, a sound of mirth erupting from him unawares.

Well, at least he had cleared the suffocating tension from the room. He could help John and Mrs Hudson had been right: whatever happened, he should stay by John’s side.

 


	23. Two Way Heart

Throwing Sherlock out the window was sorely tempting, but he would never do that to Mrs Hudson. Instead, he stared unblinkingly at Sherlock, still not quite believing he was there, in “his” chair. The 221B Baker Street shrine he’d conserved to honour Sherlock’s memory had turned into a simple museum under Greg’s influence, so was it now to become a simple home again? For him and Sherlock? As if nothing had happened?

No. The anger was still there, just under the surface, like a crocodile waiting for its prey to approach the placid waters to strike and devour. Was Sherlock seriously  _ not _ going to apologize for what he’d put him through? He couldn’t be  _ that _ oblivious.

“Well?” John asked.

Snapped really. It had come out sharper than he’d intended and only Greg sitting on the arm of his chair at his side helped him calm down. Sherlock cleared his throat.

“I think I owe you an explanation,” Sherlock said.

“Bloody right you do,” Greg growled and received one of Sherlock’s patented disparaging looks.

John scowled. Greg was right, and he certainly didn’t deserve to be looked down on by Sherlock. The two of them had been colleagues, friends even before he had ever come into the picture, and the man was his boyfriend now. Sherlock wasn’t going to scare him away like his previous girlfriends… Or did he not know about them? He had to… he was Sherlock Holmes. He always knew.

“Well… I calculated that there were thirteen possibilities once I’d invited Moriarty onto the roof.”

John stared in disbelief.

“I wanted to avoid dying if at all possible. The first scenario-”

“Are you serious?! Are you fucking serious right now?” John shouted as he jumped out of his armchair, almost toppling Greg over. “I don’t care  _ how _ you did it, Sherlock. I don’t care  _ how _ bloody clever you think you are. You’re not. I want to know  _ why _ ! Why you made me watch, why you didn’t tell me, before...hell, even after. Just a word, just to let me know… Why did you have to do it at all? What was the point of it all?”

John’s voice finally broke off, his throat tight, he thought he might cry, but he was done crying. No more tears for Sherlock Holmes. His eyes were dry and unforgiving as he looked at the man he’d thought was a friend, his best friend.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock said and John huffed because he knew that. He wasn't an idiot. He wanted more. “His endgame was my death. I knew that long before I ever set foot on the roof, and you were the hostages, so I had no choice, I had to die, as convincingly as possible, which meant I couldn’t tell you.”

Sherlock paused but didn’t let him react, deducing what he’d been about to say.

“I couldn’t. You’re neither a liar nor an actor, John, they would have known and then…” Sherlock made a sound like a bullet ripping the air. “If that were to happen, I might as well have jumped for real that day.”

Well, that had certainly shut him up. John had no idea what to say, tried to make sense of what had happened back then, rearrange what he thought he’d known with what Sherlock had just revealed.

“Hostages?” he asked. “Who else?”

“Mrs Hudson, of course, and you Lestrade.”

John felt Greg startle next to him and he reached a hand out blindly, squeezing his knee in comfort.

“What are the chances we would all be here tonight?” Sherlock said with a mirthless chuckle.

“Yeah. I… I think I need time… Sleep. I’m still a bit out of it, from everything. Can you…” he hesitated, looked at Sherlock. “Will you be here in the morning?”

Sherlock nodded. He looked relieved. Maybe he was tired too because those were the only times he let his guard down enough for his emotions to be so plainly displayed. 

“Your bedroom. It’s as you left it if you want to stay there. Might be a bit dusty.”

Sherlock nodded but didn’t budge, his eyes flitting instead between him and Greg.

“We’ll just leave you then,” John added, feeling some awkwardness settle over them.

John grabbed Greg’s hand, pulling him towards the stairs, up to his bedroom, but Sherlock’s hand shot out to grab his free hand as he walked past, stopping them.

“So it’s true?” he asked. “Lestrade implied, and I saw signs but…”

“But what?” John asked, his voice like steel again.

“You’re pretending for… I don’t know, the case or something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock.”

“But you’re not gay!” he blurted out.

“No, I’m not.”

Sherlock frowned.

“Bisexual? But you’ve never-”

John shrugged.

“For someone who likes to pretend he doesn’t care about people or what they think, you’re awfully attached to labels.”

“But… Lestrade? Why him of all-”

“Oi!” Greg, who had been inordinately silent, finally snapped.

“Sherlock! I’ve tolerated your questions even though it’s frankly none of your business who I shag, but you don’t get to judge me, or who I choose.

“Choose…” Sherlock echoed, his voice barely perceptible.

Sherlock let go of his hand so suddenly, he could still feel the ghost of his fingers holding onto him. John glanced at him to check whether he was going to have another idiotic retort but he seemed to be locking himself away in his blasted mind palace, his eyes unfocused, growing empty of all and any emotion. Absent. He hadn't changed. 

 

After a much needed shower and shave, John roped Greg into playing nurse for the few scrapes he'd earned from Freddie’s beating.

“Mrs Hudson said she had something for bruises,” he hesitated, dabbed at a cut on his brow for longer than necessary. “Do you want to talk about it? I know who… but… you know… it might help if you talk about it?”

“It's nothing,” John dismissed but sensed Greg was more concerned about it than he was. Putting himself in his shoes, he could understand. “It's nothing you did, if that's what's you're worried about. Actually I'm glad they didn't take it out on you.”

Despite his obvious exhaustion, Greg's face was unblemished. John ran a hand along the side of it then let it trail at the nape of his neck, playing with his short silver hair. He enjoyed seeing the shiver that ran through him, how Greg reached to his touch.

“Sorry about Sherlock,” he said.

“Why are you apologizing for him?”

John froze. Why had he? Laughter bubbled up and out.

“Jeez, can you believe it’s habit? After all this time and I still feel the need to apologize for him when he’s being an ass. It’s like nothing’s changed. Well… almost nothing.” John added as he leaned sleepily into Greg.

Arms surrounded him, pulled him closer so they could both lie in his ridiculously small bed. Sleep was the last thing he wanted to do after everything that happened, but his body wasn’t agreeing with his plans and he could already feel himself being pulled under. He liked hearing Greg’s voice rumble in his chest as he talked, so he asked:

“Sure you don’t mind staying here tonight?”

“Never. And with one of them still out there, I’d rather be here with you or I’d worry all night.”

John hummed in agreement before the words actually coalesced into some sort of meaning, then he shot upright, fully awake again.

“What do you mean? Who?”

He must have misheard. He couldn’t be talking about the Furies. That was over and done with. Right?

“Jenny Atkins. Sorry. What with Sherlock, I didn’t think to tell you. She was being tailed by one of Mycroft’s spooks but she managed to ditch him. Disappeared God knows where. But it’s only Jenny. I don’t think there’s really anything to worry about. She was in on it, yeah, but I doubt she actually killed anyone herself.”

John wasn’t so sure about that. The woman wasn’t threatening but she’d also never shown her true self. John had seen two face to the woman: one normal, a bubbly woman who enjoyed her work and did it efficiently, and the other, completely indifferent to another’s plight, uncaring, bordering apathy, maybe even sociopathy. He told Greg as much, relieved when he didn’t dismiss him out of hand because he wasn’t in the mood to argue with him. 

“I forgot about that, when I got her to put you on the phone, she was… different, like she didn’t care if she got hurt or hurt someone. Cold bitch comes to mind.”

Greg looked thoughtful for a moment then took out his phone and called Dimmock to let him know she was probably more dangerous than they’d assumed. John didn’t hear Dimmock’s reply but Greg looked happy enough so he let it go. He’d rather the whole matter was behind them. They’d done all they could and it wasn’t even their case anymore. 

John returned to Greg’s welcoming arms once he hung up. He closed his eyes and buried himself in his shirt, his scent, so comforting. He relaxed under Greg’s thumb drawing circles on his back while he hummed a tune. It was like being put to sleep by a volcano, warm and rumbling. Strange, he thought just before sleep caught up to him, that he’d find comfort in that. 

 

The awakening the next morning was brutal and filled them with dread. It was early, still dark out, and it was Dimmock. John knew what was being said between the two men before Greg even relayed it to him. Another one, then. Right on schedule. Jenny had been busy, and she was far from an innocent accomplice. In fact, according to Dimmock, the M.O. had changed again and he only knew it was a Fury murder because of the trademark bloody tears. Of course, that interested Sherlock so much, convincing him to help was a piece of cake. The difficult part being that he couldn't consult on the crime scene itself since he was supposedly dead himself. It was decided in the end that Greg would go and film the crime scene from his phone as best he could while John, in no state to deal with the outside world just yet, would stay with Sherlock to assist.

Like old times, only not. John hated that he was happy to team up with Sherlock, see his mind firing off ideas like fireworks and come up with the most outlandish deductions out of the most insignificant of details. He hated that he still had this pull towards Sherlock, one that even his anger wasn't able to put a stop to. His heart which had been so shriveled and empty not long ago was filling up at an alarming rate, first with Greg, and now with Sherlock, reclaiming his rightful place whether John wanted him to or not. His heart would surely overflow or be torn apart from the strain.

“This feels weird,” Greg said as if he was echoing his thoughts, but he was fiddling with the small communicating device in his ear. “What's next, camera-eyeballs?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed. “Although… I do have connected glasses we could see through…”

“Yes, because it wouldn't look strange at all for me to start wearing glasses all of a sudden.”

“Well, you are getting on in age.”

“Oi! I'm still young enough to toss you out on your posh arse.”

John looked at them fondly. He'd forgotten how much Greg used to bicker with Sherlock. Not many people could hold their own against him. It took a special kind of people, and he could count them on the fingers of one hand. 

“You'll do just fine,” John cut in before it got out of hand. “You'd better go before Dimmock becomes suspicious.”

Greg nodded, kissed him goodbye with a sidelong glance at Sherlock that neither of them missed, and left. Was… was Greg jealous? Now was not the time to discuss this, Greg had to go, but they  _ would  _ talk about it soon. He had no intention of letting Greg feel insecure about their relationship. John bit his bottom lip. Had he done or said something that had hurt his feelings, made him doubt him? He didn’t think so… 

“Your boyfriend is being childish,” Sherlock noted.

John grumbled, not wanting to start an argument with Sherlock about Greg and went off to make some tea before it was time to spy on Scotland Yard.


	24. Through Your Eyes

Greg pulled up his collar in an attempt to make the device in his ear less conspicuous, then promptly pulled it down, not wanting to look like Sherlock who always pulled up his own overlarge collar because he thought it made him look cool or something. After a few steps, Greg pulled it up again, because it was windy, cold and he wasn't going to define his life by what the resuscitated berk did or didn't do. Down again. He was trying to appear as normal as possible, after all.

“Are you quite finished flapping your collar up and down like an overgrown pigeon?” 

Greg stumbled upon hearing Sherlock’s deep voice in his head all of a sudden, but he was thankfully far enough from the crime scene that no one noticed. How the hell did he know? Had he deduced it from the sound of his collar swishing by the bug in his ear?

“CCTV, Lestrade,” Sherlock snorted, having deduced it from whatever his face was doing.

Greg looked around, spotted a camera turned his way and flipped the bird at it.

“Oh, very mature, Detective Inspector. Honestly, John, how do you put up with him?”

John’s retort was muffled but cowed Sherlock enough that he apologized. To John, not to him. Greg sighed. He wasn’t even on the crime scene yet and he was already having second thoughts about this method of communication. They could have just texted, despite his “abysmal typing speed.” It’s not like he could even respond this way and he wouldn’t have to listen to Sherlock serenading his boyfriend over text as if he wasn’t even there, or whatever it was Sherlock was doing since Greg could only hear half the conversation and not the better half. What did hogs and butterflies have to do with any of this? He hoped John was as confused as he was.

“Lestrade,” Dimmock greeted him, skirting the hot zone where Porky and his forensic team were hard at work, and boy, was there work to do. “Thanks for coming. I wouldn't ask, but you know the case better than anyone else.”

Greg wondered if that was true anymore. Firstly, because now Sherlock was involved and he always knew a whole deal more than everyone, and secondly, because this body slipped passed the bizarre to rank high in the macabre category. There was blood… everywhere, which had never happened before in a Fury crime scene.

“Yeah, sure. No problem,” he replied absently while he angled his phone towards the crime scene as best he could while hiding it from Dimmock. “Should Porky be working this scene? You know he dates the woman who did this, right?”

Dimmock shrugged. 

“We all knew Jenny on some level. She was friends with most of the Yard, or at least pretended too. Damn, to think I had a crush on her. I can't believe she could do something like this. She’s so… you know...”

Greg had no idea what he was on about and wondered if he’d been about to say something which Sally would have hit him over the head for. It’s not like they’d never arrested women for murder before.

“She did, unless there's a Fury we completely missed, but I really doubt it.”

Dimmock nodded then left him to peruse the scene at his convenience, bless him. It would make pretending Sherlock wasn't barking orders in his ear that much easier. He wished John would just bash him over the head with his violin or something.

“I have no interest whatsoever in your shoes or crotch, Lestrade. Up! Up!”

He was going to murder Sherlock for real when this was over, but he followed his instructions and pointed his phone upwards. The sooner he was done, the better. 

“There. Closer. I want to have a good look at the wound.”

_ Which one? _ Greg wondered as he hovered his phone close over the body, because the man lying at his feet looked like he'd hugged a giant cactus with needles the size of-

“A screwdriver,” Sherlock said. “Interesting. I don't think I've ever had a murder by screwdriver before. Hammers are so much handier, I suppose. Do you see a workbench nearby, Lestrade, or a toolbox?”

Greg glanced around the small flat. The victim had been found in the main room, not far from the entrance, but the flat was so small he'd hung his bicycle on the wall to save on space, so he should have tools nearby… right about here. Greg peaked into a lidless box that seemed to house everything from spare change to keys to takeout menus, as well as a few screwdrivers of various colours and length.

“That blue one,” Sherlock directed and Greg put on a latex gloves to pick it out and examine it more closely. True enough, it had been hastily wiped off, then tossed carelessly back into the box. Sloppy, but then again, she wasn't trying to hide who she was or what she'd done.

“It wasn't planned. She got carried away, not that she regretted it.”

_ Alright, _ Greg thought although how he knew all that from the screwdriver was anyone's guess.

“I'm missing something,” Sherlock continued, “John, give me those files.”

Greg took advantage of the silence to watch the scene for himself this time. It was very different from the last crime scenes attributed to the Furies. More violent, if you discounted the other irregularity when Freddie had suspended the cook’s naked body in the middle of the street. But it wasn't just violence for violence’s sake, it looked deliberate, every bloody hole appearing at regular interval, one after the other, so much so, Greg cold follow the trail from his left arm, across his torso and finishing down his belly. Torture?

“As usual, you look but you do not observe,” Sherlock intruded on his thoughts once more. “You even pointed out the time gap between the two injections. Just what did you think it was for?”

Right, not speaking at him, but to John. His answer didn't seem satisfying judging by Sherlock’s reply. 

“Confessions? Why would they care? They had already condemned them. No, they wanted information, maybe not from all of them. They hid the trees in the forest, so to speak: a few of their victims knew something the Furies very much wanted to know...so I ask you? What could it be?”

Greg huffed. How could the git always make it seem so obvious? As much as he appreciated Sherlock's help on cases, he still didn't relish feeling like an imbecile. On the other hand, he should have known better. Ben was too smart, he had to have an aim to all those self-righteous murders done in the name of justice. Something more down to earth, something more… personal. Ben had only valued one thing above being a copper and that was his family. Not his wife or daughter. They had led pretty normal lives that he knew of. But Jenny, his granddaughter with the split personality, widowed at a young age, a mole in the police force, a spy, a Fury herself…

Greg hummed, feeling like he was on to something, if only he had time and the means to pull the pieces together, but of course, Sherlock beat him to it.

“Weren’t you even the tiniest bit curious as to what happened to Jenny’s husband? Here, take a look.”

Greg wondered if Sherlock was making him feel left out on purpose. Whatever he’d shown John prompted the correct answer out of him this time.

“Revenge, yes,” Sherlock purred. “What else?”

For Jenny’s husband, Greg assumed. Just how had he died? Why hadn’t he bothered to check himself? Maybe Sherlock was right and he was an idiot after all.

“So the question is: where is her husband’s murderer? We find him, we find Jenny Atkins.”

 

Before leaving, Greg gave Dimmock the rundown on Jenny’s true motive, her target, as well as the murder weapon. His colleague looked at him like he was an alien as he gaped, at a complete loss for words, so Greg simply dropped the screwdriver in his hands and took off with a wave goodbye. Was that how he looked at Sherlock when he dropped the whole solution to a case in his lap without warning? He had to admit Dimmock’s reaction was a bit unnerving and maybe he could start to understand why Sherlock was so frustrated and snappish all the time.

It still did not excuse his behaviour, past or present. Greg was actually getting more and more annoyed with his present one in truth. It was one thing to play dead, and quite another to flirt with his boyfriend when he knew perfectly well Greg could hear everything. Sure, he could just take out the device from his ear and not be subjected to any more of Sherlock’s “I have missed you, John.”, “I had to do it for you, John.”, “I truly am sorry, John.”.  Just the way he said John’s name was indecent, drawn out and deep, almost a moan… Greg was pretty sure Sherlock didn't use to say John's name that way and he had to wonder how his boyfriend was reacting. John couldn’t be oblivious to such outrageous flirtations, not when everyone always thought he and Sherlock were or should be a couple, and told him so on many occasions, Greg included.

Maybe John would decide he and Greg weren’t that serious yet, and that he wanted to give Sherlock a chance. Maybe it’s what he’d always wanted and had only just realized it. And now, miraculously, he was given a second chance. It was like Fate was trying to push the two men together, squeezing Greg out in the process. What was he after all? Just a beat down copper, divorced, with bad habits and grey hair...not much to boast about. Not like Sherlock with his stupidly good looks, posh voice and charisma like a very sharp sword that either scared you away for good or fascinated you and drew you in close enough to cut yourself and leave a scar for life. Like John. 

Like him too, Greg had to admit. After all these years, he'd always come back to Sherlock. Despite the insults and awful personality, Greg had sought out his help time and again, going against police procedure, against his colleagues wishes and against his hierarchy’s orders. What did that say about him? About Sherlock?

Greg's jealousy deflated all of a sudden and his frantic walk to his car turned into hesitant steps. It's not like he could do anything about this situation: Sherlock was back and it was a good thing in the grand scheme of things. He had to remember that.

So, whatever John decided, Greg would just have to deal with it. If there was one thing he'd learned from his failed marriage, it's that you can't fight feelings, love, or the lack thereof, and he might just be right in the middle of such a situation again. He'd promised himself he wouldn't, but there was no way he could have ever imagined Sherlock would come back from the dead, so now that he was indeed in the weak spot of a love triangle again, Greg promised himself he wouldn't deal with it the way he had before. He wouldn't fight it, it lead to more heartache than he could afford.

In fact, his heart felt lighter now that he’d taken a decision, and he could focus his attention back on his work. Technically, his suspension had ended and he should report to the Yard, but if he wanted to stop the last Fury, he knew his chances were better if he followed Sherlock’s lead. Of course, he'd have to hand everything over to Dimmock who would take credit for it, but Greg was strangely okay with that. He just wanted this case closed.

 

“Greg!” 

John's face lit up when he saw him darkening the doorway to 221B. Greg felt a smile stretch across his face. He could get used to this sort of welcome. It was both foreign and heartwarming. It felt like home, even with Sherlock looming behind John with a scowl directed right at him. His meaning couldn’t be any clearer: John is mine.

But he wasn't. John didn't belong to anyone but to himself, which didn’t mean Greg couldn’t have a bit of fun at Sherlock’s expense. He strode over to John, swooped him into his arms with a “Hello, sweetheart.” and kissed him soundly on the lips. Just because he could and Sherlock couldn’t. As a couple, they weren’t really into public displays of affection, but Sherlock was officially dead so he didn’t technically count. Greg wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Sherlock’s frown deepened, looking more like his brother than he’d ever done before.

“What was that for?” John asked, righting himself and looking flustered, but happily so if his goofy smile and blush was any indication.

“I missed you?” Greg offered, his sly grin directed at Sherlock as much as John.

John laughed it off, called him silly and went to make him tea. As soon as he’d disappeared into the kitchen, Sherlock stepped in front of him and stared him down, or tried to, but he wasn’t actually that much taller than he was so the attempt at intimidation was rather lost on him.

“I know what you’re trying to do, Lestrade.”

“Do you now?” 

Greg couldn’t be happier that he’d decided to leave everything in John’s hands, it made the whole situation rather comical from his point of view now, where he knew he would have agonized over it before. Not that he didn’t dread losing John’s affection for this tosser, but it wasn’t his decision to make. All he could do was show John he loved him and hope that was enough.

“You’re...marking your territory,” Sherlock sniffed as if he could actually smell pee.

Yes, this whole situation was decidedly very ridiculous and entirely of Sherlock’s making to boot.

“No, I rather think that’s what you’ve been trying to do since you came back, Sherlock, and I almost fell for it too, but you forget I have something that gives me the upper hand for once,” Greg grinned winningly, waiting for the other man to take the bait.

“Really? And what is that? A lack of self-control?”

Greg snorted because he was really one to talk, or should he point out the bullet holes that still adorned the living-room wall. Talk about a lack of self-control. Greg shook his head.

“Experience, Sherlock. Live and learn, and as you so kindly pointed out earlier, I have a few more years experience on you.”

John returned just then, froze in the doorway with a whole platter of steaming mugs in his hands as he looked between them.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

“Sure,” Greg said. “Sherlock was just telling me how we were going to catch Jenny. Ain’t he clever?”


	25. Connection Not Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I've been very busy with being sick and festivities and all! I've also been translating amazing fics by  kirin_calls  which I can only recommend you check out!

Sherlock was acting strange. Greg was acting strange. John wasn’t sure what exactly was going on between the two of them but he sometimes felt like banging their heads together just to get some peace and quiet. Greg had been cold upon Sherlock’s return and Sherlock had been absolutely awful while Greg investigated the last crime scene for them, but then… something must have happened to Greg, because he, at least, was back to his old self, sweet and funny and flashing that infectious grin of his. John wondered if maybe it had nothing to do with Sherlock after all. That Greg had simply never been suspended before and had not taken it well. John could understand that. He'd been all sorts of angry and sullen when he'd been kicked out of the army himself, except that unlike Greg, he would never get to go back. Not that he would want to now, but he was glad for Greg.

He wasn't sure how to deal with Sherlock though. He was… different. It wasn't that John didn't remember him right after all this time, or that he'd put him on a pedestal and idealized him when he'd believed him dead, far from it, because John had always been fascinated by Sherlock's flaws as much as by his genius. No, it was definitely coming from Sherlock. He was apologetic which was already a miracle unto itself, and he was… nice? Or something approaching. It was a bit creepy, to be honest, and not at all like Sherlock. John chalked it up to his friend trying too hard to be forgiven, and it might just work at that, which made him wonder just how insincere his act was.

John chuckled to himself, realizing he'd already forgiven Sherlock for what he'd done. Not that he'd tell the berk. Not yet. A little payback was in order after all he'd put him through.

“Should I be worried you seem to find torture amusing?” Greg asked with a quirk to his lips that belied the gravity of his tone.

“Just imagining Sherlock as the victim,” John quipped.

“Uhm, I see how that would be appealing.”

“You do realize I'm sitting right here, of course,” Sherlock snapped. “Could we get on with the case now, or should we wait for the body count to rise? So, as I was saying, we can sort the Furies murders in two piles: the decoys,” Sherlock’s left hand came to rest on one pile of files. “And the targets.”

Sherlock's right hand landed on the second pile, which was just as high as the first. You'd think you'd need a larger forest to hide that many trees but since the Furies had duped everyone before Sherlock came along, John had to admit their diversion had been a success.

The decoys were Sommers, their very first victim, although John had no doubt Ben had relished having him put down, and he still couldn't find it in him to condemn that murder, not even now; then there was the widow and the drug-dealer whose fridge they'd been locked in. The real targets were the old financial crook, the drugs-cook, the big drug importer and their last victim whom they didn't know much about yet but who was “obviously” a target and not a decoy since he'd been tortured for information.

“Oh, right,” John exclaimed suddenly with a snap of his fingers and leaped out of his seat.

He dug into a pile of papers and took out a copy of the file Sherlock had shown him earlier, wondering why he hadn’t given it to Greg himself upon his return.

“The real target,” John announced, handing it over then throwing himself back in his seat. “Their endgame, so to speak.”

After all this time, they finally knew the whole truth about the Furies. This was the last piece of the puzzle, the cornerstone that gave sense to the whole enigma. He watched fondly as Greg eagerly opened the folder like a kid opened a present on Christmas morning. His dark eyes took in the picture of the mugshot and read the information attached. To think the man who had started all this madness was just some petty criminal, a mere drug dealer who’d gotten in too deep and shot a cop when he found himself cornered. That policeman’s name was Georges Atkins, Freddie’s twin brother, Jenny’s husband. His murderer had been easily apprehended, but then got off the hook on some technicality during his arrest. Sherlock thought he must have been paid and hidden away by the people the Furies had targeted to shut up and not implicate them, burying the whole sordid affair. Greg whistled in dismay. 

“Wow, can’t believe I didn’t remember this. It’s not my division, and I didn’t know the bloke, but still…”

John nodded. It’s not everyday a copper got shot, even here in London.

“You do realize you could have solved this case days ago if you’d bothered to use your tiny little brain, Lestrade.”

John turned incredulous eyes towards Sherlock. First, that was not on, second, was he implying-

“You could have prevented-”

_ He was, the prick! _

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, appalled.

He glanced at Greg who was biting down hard on his bottom lip, but wasn’t trying to defend himself. If anything, he looked guilty.

“What? I’m just pointing out the obvious,” Sherlock replied. “ _ He _ knows I’m right.”

“No! I can't remember all my patients and colleagues names, and certainly not when they're as common as Atkins. Not everyone can compete with your massive intellect!” John all but shouted in his face.

His sarcasm was quite lost on Sherlock though.

“So you admit he’s stupid?” he asked, pointing at Greg, quite besides the point he was trying to make.

John threw his arms in the air. He gave up. Whatever the hell was wrong with Sherlock, he wished he’d just cut it out and get on with the case.

“No, we’re  _ all  _ idiots to you, remember? And what has that to do with anything? We need to find this-” he glanced at the file lying open in Greg’s limp hands. “Tom Stubbins fellow before Jenny does.”

Greg and Sherlock were glaring at one another again.

“Oi! Cut it out you two! Where do we start?”

She might strike tonight. Did they not realize the urgency of the situation?

“He’s hiding at 49D Lower Clapton street.”

“What?” John echoed, not sure he’d heard him right.

“Who?” Greg added, equally as confused.

“Stubbins.”

“You’re telling me,” Greg said, looking like he might just implode from the sheer frustration that was Sherlock Holmes. “That you knew all along where the probable target of a very determined serial killer was hiding and you didn’t think of sharing that information?”

“I wouldn’t say all along…” Sherlock trailed off, fiddling with the phone in his hands and seeming confused by their anger.

“Right, I’m sending a squad to collect him,” Greg muttered and left the room, presumably to call the Yard, but maybe to look for some rat poison to add to Sherlock’s tea. Not that he’d blame him.

John sighed and looked at Sherlock. Directly, eye to eye. No more hiding.

“What are you trying to do, Sherlock?”

“Nothing.”

“Stop being so childish.”

“Stop being so oblivious.”

“Me?  _ I’m _ the one being oblivious?”

“Obviously.”

John sputtered, unable to think or come up with a reply to that.

“Oblivious to what? As far as I can see, I’m the only one here who has  _ not _ been acting like a total lunatic. Greg, I can understand, but you… What is the matter with you?”

“I…” Sherlock swallowed, his eyes grew wide as he repeated: “I…”

If John didn't know better, he'd think he had just broken Sherlock Holmes, or that he was choking on his inflated ego, but John knew his friend well and he wasn't in need of the Heimlich maneuver, merely of the right words to explain what he dreaded most: emotions. Was it because he was being too harsh on him? Because he hadn't told him he was forgiven? Was Sherlock… worried? Surely he knew him better than that? John had always been quick to anger, like every other Watson in his family tree, but he wasn't known for holding a grudge.

“Don't worry, Sherlock,” John said once it was clear his friend was stuck in a one-word loop. He leaned towards him and patted his arm. “I understand.”

“You...do?” Sherlock asked with his right eyebrow raised at a skeptical angle.

Ah. Still in monosyllabic-hell.

“Of course. I'm not stupid. Or oblivious, thank you very much. I know it must be difficult for you, to adjust, seeing we got on with our lives, while you were stuck hiding God knows where and, well, we weren't exactly welcoming so… I'm sorry.”

“You're...sorry?” Sherlock parroted back one more, but they had moved on to two syllable-words so there was progress..

“Yes. I'm sorry for hitting you and for being mad at you, so you can stop… being weird. More than usual I mean. I didn't understand, but now I do, you were just trying to protect us. I still think you could have found another way to include us in your mad scheme, but…”

John shrugged. It actually felt good to let go of his anger and he grinned widely at Sherlock. He didn't look as relieved as he thought he would given how hard he'd been trying to earn his forgiveness. Had he read the situation wrong?

“Was there something else?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock finally replied.

A derisive snort drew their attention. Greg had returned.

“You're sure, Sherlock? Cause now is a good time to speak up.”

Sherlock’s expression was akin to one he had seen only once before and never since, that night on the moor, in the hallucinogenic fog: pure unadulterated terror. 

“Sherlock?”

The man shook his curls frantically, his jaw firmly clenched, so John turned to his boyfriend.

“Greg?”

He shrugged.

“It's not my place to say.”

John huffed. Apparently, he was blind. He'd get it out of one of them, eventually. Greg had no idea of the wicked ways he had at his disposal to make him talk, poor man.

“On another note,” Greg added more seriously. “Stubbins is safe and sound. He'll be kept at the Yard until we apprehend Jenny. Any idea of where to find  _ her _ , Sherlock? Or is that another tidbit of information you're keeping to yourself?”

Sherlock huffed.

“No, Lestrade. Now that you've confiscated my bait, I have to think of another way to lure her in. She's a sneaky one.”

“Your bait? He's a-”

“Oh, please! Don't tell me you're defending him. It's bad enough that...Oh!”

John shared a glance with Greg. They both knew that I-just-had-an-epiphany face. Any second now he was going to… Yep, there was the smirk.

“If I was smart and desperate enough, I would still go for it. And succeed, of course.”

“You don’t mean she’s just going to walk into Scotland Yard?” Greg scoffed.

“And why not? She knows the Yard like the back of her hand, so she’s already at a huge advantage, plus she would have the element of surprise. She doesn’t even care about making it out alive, it’s just a question of revenge, so that’s one less worry for her. She could even go in with guns blazing for all we know. All she wants is Stubbins and damn the consequences.”

John and Greg stared at him. It sounded insane, and yet, it seemed all too plausible.

“How sure are you of this?” Greg asked.

“If I was seeking revenge for…” Sherlock glanced at John. “Someone dear to me, it’s what I’d do.”

Greg nodded sharply.

“So should we hide Stubbins elsewhere?” he asked.

“I couldn’t care less, as long as you do it discreetly. If you want to catch Jenny Atkins, this is our best chance, so it’s of the utmost importance everyone believes Stubbins is still there in Scotland Yard.”

Greg grimaced. The Yard’s red tape would make sure that was not possible. He couldn’t just transfer a witness under their protection all by himself and hope to get away with it. He’d get suspended, again, if he was found out, and worse if anything happened to Stubbins. It would be the end of his career. But maybe he could… misplace him?

“You could just shove Stubbins in a broom cupboard,” John said. “I’ll take his place, if I hide my face and lower the lights, no one will think twice about it and just assume I’m Stubbins. You and Sherlock just need to stop Jenny before she gets to me.”

John refrained from adding “ta-da!” to his idea and waited for their reactions. He thought it was as good a plan as any if they finally wanted to put this case behind them.

“You’re insane…”

“...brilliant!”

Greg and Sherlock glared at each other. John was a bit miffed by Greg’s answer, but he talked over their protest to explain himself.

“There’s no way I’m letting you take such a risk.”

“He won’t be taking any risk. We will stop her well before she even sets eyes on John. He’ll be acting as a decoy for your colleagues more than for our Fury.” Sherlock argued.

“And just how do you imagine  _ you  _ can waltz into Scotland Yard, Mister look-at-me-I’m-not-dead?” Greg shot back.

“The same way Mrs Atkins will, I suppose. I shall wear a disguise.”  



	26. Master of Disguise

Greg thought John and Sherlock were both mad. They’d always been, before, whenever they were together. The pair was like a combination of two chemicals that were relatively harmless on their own but produced the most alarming reaction when put into contact. So, he really should not have been surprised they were going ahead with their plan, whether he agreed with it or not. He doubted they’d make it past the front desk anyway, because they were known troublemakers and, to top it off, one of them was officially dead, but then… the door to Sherlock’s room opened again, and out came… an old man with a scraggly beard and a Stubbins look-alike.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” he exclaimed and approached them, wondering if the illusion would hold up to a closer inspection.

To his surprise, it did. He knew, logically speaking, that he was looking at John and Sherlock, both of whom he knew very well, and yet, looking at them, it made his eyes water and brain hurt trying to align the image he had of them with what he was seeing.

“Alright. Maybe your idea is not as crazy as I thought.”

“Told you,” John said with a grin that belonged only to him and nodded towards Sherlock. “Master of disguise.”

“Jeez,” Greg muttered after taking a whiff of Sherlock when he pushed past him. “Was the smell really necessary?”

“It’s all in the details,” Sherlock wheezed and even his voice wasn’t his own.

Greg had had enough. If anyone recognized Sherlock, he’d eat his own badge.

 

Switching John for Stubbins was actually going to be the most difficult part of their plan, because he was put under surveillance twenty four seven in one of the Yards interrogation rooms - for his own good of course. However, Sherlock promised them a diversion, which is why Greg and John were currently hiding in the broom closet nearest Stubbins’ holding room, with the door cracked open just enough that they would know when to act.

“You're sure you're up to this?” Greg asked, pointing at John's side where he knew a large bruise coloured most of his torso.

“I'll just be sitting down pretending to be someone else. It's not exactly taxing. Don't worry so much about me. You'll be the one putting yourself in harm’s way.”

John looked concerned for a moment and Greg wanted to kiss the worry lines off his face, but he found himself laughing instead because John looked more like Stubbins than himself right now, and that was just plain weird because he really didn't want to kiss Stubbins, a known cop-killer currently in their custody.

“Problem?” John asked, but he was saved the awkward explanation by loud shouts which could only be Sherlock's diversion. The uniformed officers posted nearby to look after Stubbins moved towards the end of the corridor to check what the commotion was about, probably thinking their charge wasn’t really at risk in the middle of Scotland Yard, or simply not caring what happened to him if left unattended, even for just a minute.

They didn't have long to act. They ran across the corridor, Greg opened the door and flashed his badge at Stubbins who looked too stunned at seeing his double to fight him off.

“I'll explain later,” Greg muttered and literally pulled him out of his chair and the room. He locked the door behind him and spared a last glance at John through the window. He was already sitting in Stubbins’ place and had even put on the man's coat he'd left behind on the back of the chair, then he tilted his head, showing as little of his face as possible. The illusion was perfect.

Greg pulled a baseball cap out of his pocket and shoved it on Stubbins’ head, just as he saw the two guards walk back towards them to their post, glancing their way and dismissing them as a threat, not that they were wrong.

“Keep your head down and don't talk. I'm taking you somewhere safe,” Greg muttered when they were out of earshot of the policemen.

Stubbins still hadn't uttered a word. He was either very trusting, very stupid, or very scared. He had, after all, been informed that the Fury was after him and everyone had heard about the mysterious serial killer plaguing London. Maybe he had suspected it already, but knowing with certainty was a whole other level of terrifying. 

They made it safely to the archive room where John had once found himself locked in with two coppers having an illicit afternoon romp. It was a good place to hide in plain sight, if bit too popular for his taste, but Sherlock had told him to simply stick a note saying “Do not enter” on the door, promising it worked wonders because people were idiots. Greg still had his doubts about that, but he did as he was told and hastily scribbled the sign in bold, black, block letters on a white sheet of printing paper he’d borrowed from the nearest desk before taping it to the door. He admired his handiwork and it looked every bit as amateurish as he’d feared. Finally, he glanced around to make sure nobody was paying them any mind and shoved Stubbins inside.

The man stumbled, then cringed when Greg approached him, lifting his arms over his head as if to protect himself from an oncoming blow. Greg titled his head to the side, wondering what was going on, when Stubbins started babbling between sniffles.

“Don’t hurt me… please don’t… don’t hurt me…”

“Wasn’t going to,” Greg snapped, hoping to get the man to stop his blubbering but only making it worse.

What did he think? That they were playing out the bad cop scenario? Rolling his eyes and deciding he didn’t have time to deal with this nonsense, Greg pulled Stubbins to the far end of the room, behind rows and rows of filing cabinets and dusty boxes stacked up high. Finding an old radiator there made his day as it was fixed sturdily to the wall, giving him the perfect place to handcuff Stubbins.

“Shouldn’t be too long. The Fury is coming, but she’ll head for the decoy. You’ve seen him.”

Stubbins nodded with wide, watery eyes .

“Alright, so you know you have nothing to fear as long as you stay quietly here. She won’t find you. Understood?”

He nodded again, tears and snot dribbling down his blotchy face. All of this madness with the Furies for this man? This coward? Greg had a fleeting moment during which he wondered if Stubbins was worth the bother, but he shook it off and hurried out of the room, busying himself around the Yard, and doing his best to look natural while keeping an eye out for Jenny or anyone who could potentially be Jenny. Greg hoped to God she wasn’t as good with disguises as Sherlock or they were screwed.

 

Hours later, Greg went in search of an old man wearing a scraggly beard and smelling of piss. He wasn’t hard to find and Greg was surprised no one had thrown him out of the building yet.

“I just start a long rambling rant whenever someone asks if they can help me with anything. They take the first opportunity they can to leave,” he explained and Greg could believe that, because his smell was awful and the voice he’d adopted could probably put to sleep a room full of screaming toddlers on a sugar-high.

“Are you sure Jenny will come here?” he asked, needing to know they weren’t just wasting their time, and him, risking his job.

At least, John was okay. Greg had walked by his room a couple of times and he had either fallen asleep on the table or was pretending to. Stubbins had fallen asleep in the archive room too and seemed happy enough there. The problem was that they couldn’t very well maintain the switch overnight because Stubbins would be locked up somewhere else...

“Based on the facts, I’d say I’m about 90% sure. She’s most likely waiting for the best opportunity, but I’m not sure what that would be.”

Greg thought about that. When there would be the least people? When the night shift came in? Wouldn’t that just make her stand out more? So when there was the most people about? But how could you predict that? Sighing, Greg returned to the coffee machine and bumped into Sally.

“You’ve been about a lot today? No new cases assigned to you?” she asked curiously.

“No,” Greg lied. He had. He just had a more urgent matter to solve right now and Sherlock had already solved those that had been piling up on his desk. Yep. He had already solved them. All three of them. Without leaving the Yard. Greg hated him sometimes.

“How about you? The Furies?”

“We’re still interrogating them and looking for the third,” she grimaced. “They’re not cooperating one bit though.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised. You’ve got ample proof though, that should be enough.”

“Yeah, about that. I tried calling your  _ boyfriend _ ,” she said, emphasizing the word and giving him a cheeky grin. “But he’s not answering. Everything alright? Don’t forget we need his deposition. He’s kind of a key witness against them.”

Greg bit back a curse. They  _ had _ forgotten, actually, and John wasn’t answering simply because he wasn’t John Watson right now.

“He… still needs to rest. It was quite an ordeal, you know…”

Sally hummed then stirred her coffee thoughtfully.

“Maybe I should drop by his place to take his deposition, make it easier for him?”

“No!” Greg exclaimed, his own coffee spilling over the sides and burning his hand. “Fuck!”

Sally looked taken aback, not that he blamed her, but he ignored her while he wiped off his hands and cooked up for an excuse. He just imagined her going there unannounced and coming face to face with Sherlock. Not good. They might actually kill each other and then Greg would have another case cluttering his desk.

“Erm… I mean, you don’t want to go there. John kept the place he shared with Sherlock and it… uhm… basically looks like it used to, sort of a shrine to him. You don’t want to see that.”

“And you do? You don’t mind? You're daring the bloke, isn't that kind of…” she trailed off but her feelings on the matter were clearly visible on her face and they were not good.

Greg shrugged. He hadn’t actually. He’d just been worried for John’s mental health. It had gotten better since then however, but it was the perfect excuse to deter Sally from visiting 222B.

“Everyone grieves in their own way,” Greg said with a shrug.

She accepted that and excused herself while Greg sighed in relief. One disaster avoided, one more to go. 

He was pretending to copy files at the machine when he saw her walk by. A bit taller than Jenny, but she was wearing heels, the hair colour was wrong, but the texture made him suspect it was a wig, and then he saw Sherlock trailing a ways behind her and he knew: the Fury was here.

 

She was smart, damn her. Jenny Atkins had waited for just ten minutes before people had finished their day. When everyone was too tired and distracted to pay any attention to their surroundings. When everyone was trying to finish what they were doing or already gathering their belongings  or putting on their coat… Sherlock spotted him across the room and gave him a nod. They would proceed as planned.

Greg’s only worry was what Jenny intended to do with the two guards at Stubbins’ door. Greg doubted she’d hurt them. They were, after all, only doing their job and were innocent officers of the law, just like her own husband had been, but Sherlock argued that when people were pushed into a corner, they lashed out more often than not. Which is why they had to catch her before she even made her way there. Well, that and making sure she got nowhere near John. On that point at least, he and Sherlock agreed wholeheartedly.

Unfortunately, nothing ever goes as planned and Jenny glanced his way. Greg made a split decision to drop the file he’d been holding and make a loud show of grumbling as he picked them up. He only saw her heels as she hurried off in another direction, Sherlock not far behind. Knowing her, she’d probably planned another route, so Greg waited until she was out of sight and made a beeline for John’s location, hoping to cut her off.

In the end, she arrived in the large hallway just as he did, except she was slightly out of breath. The two guards tensed, hands on their guns as they watched them facing off.

“Jenny,” he said, because it was no use pretending now. “Surrender yourself. It’s over.”

At that, both the guards and Jenny drew their weapons on one another. Greg felt a bit foolish being empty handed but his secret weapon had just made its way in behind Jenny.

“Say, young lady,” he wheezed, approaching her slowly like a doddering old fool who hadn’t realized he’d just walked smack in the middle of a gunfight. “I can’t seem to find the bathroom, would you mind-”

“Get away from me!” she shouted in warning and made the mistake of half-turning towards Sherlock as she did so.

Seemingly by accident, Sherlock tripped, then held on to her arm for balance, making her fall and let go of her gun. It had only taken a few seconds, and a few more for the stunned guards and Greg to pile on top of Jenny and put her in cuffs. She was seething and struggling against them, still wanting to fight when she’d obviously lost. Greg told the guards to put Jenny in a cell and that he’d take care of the rest, which they were more than happy to do. No one liked guard duty, it was little better than being a doorstop most of the time.

But… it was done. Over. Sherlock went to fetch Stubbins while Greg unlocked the door to the interrogation room. With any luck, they could make the exchange before anyone was the wiser.

John looked up when the door opened, then grinned at seeing him. That welcoming smile never got old.

“You did it.” John said more than asked.

Greg realized he was grinning as well, giving away their success, so he nodded. 

“Sherlock should be back with Stubbins any moment now, then we can leave.”

“Finally,” John said, sighing in relief and taking off Stubbins’ coat. “I’ve never been this bored on a stakeout before.”

“Worth it, though. We can celebrate tonight.”

“Have something in mind?” John asked and they were now very close. 

Close enough that Greg saw more of his John than Stubbins the coward. Like a magnet, Greg couldn’t fight the pull towards John if he wanted to. Greg had missed him all day, having him so near at hand and yet not being able to so much as wave at him… Their kiss couldn’t have lasted that long, he was sure, but it ended with a shriek.

“What?! The hell are you doing?!”

Greg froze. Of course Sally had walked in on them. She was alone thankfully, but had enough of a temper for the whole station. Greg glanced out of the door he’d stupidly left ajar and saw Sherlock hovering near the entrance. Sally must have cut him off at the last minute. Greg turned to face Sally.

“Nothing,” he lied outright.

Maybe she hadn’t seen anything and had just assumed. He had his back to the door after all.

“Nothing? You’re snogging a witness under our protection. You have a boyfriend! Why would you do that to John? What the fuck is wrong with you? I never expected such behaviour from you!”

Greg had a few scathing remarks to throw at her, but he was too distracted by Sherlock who was making wild incomprehensible gestures at him in the doorway. Sally noticed his attention shifting and made to turn around so he had no choice: he made a spectacle of himself and hoped John and Sherlock sorted everything out.

 


	27. Double the Deceit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My posting schedule is as erratic as my moods and I'm not even sorry. I know you love me anyway.

John felt Greg freeze as they kissed but hadn’t understood why at first, too lost was he in the sensation of Greg enveloping him with his arms and invading him without tongue. He was too content, that was the problem, but he snapped out of it when he heard his name bantered about, just in time to catch the last few words of Sally’s tirade. Oops. He hid behind Greg, thinking that maybe they could still get away with it, especially because Sherlock was  _ right there _ in the doorway. If he could just discretely switch places with Stubbins, they still had hope Greg could sort everything out while they made a swift exit.

Good news was that Greg had a large enough built to hide him from Sally’s wrath and he could thus concentrate on the problem at hand. Bad news was that Sherlock’s hands signs didn’t make a whit of sense: something small... jumped over a wall and...cut his hair? John mouthed a “WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?” at Sherlock who huffed in annoyance and, after a few seconds of rummaging around his pockets, held out a pair of broken handcuffs.

Oh. Not good. Stubbins had escaped and made a run for it then. Criminals could be so unreliable nowadays, which meant Greg was going to be in a world of trouble, and because of him, no less, since this whole thing had been his idea to start with.

To make matters worse, Greg was trying to spin a very unconvincing tale about Stubbins having lost a contact and him just helping out and could she please get her mind out of the gutter already? John would have laughed if the situation wasn't such a clusterfuck already.

He gestured at Sherlock to hide before stepping out from behind Greg, feeling very much like a character out of an Agatha Christie book. He'd twirl his moustache like Hercule Poirot if he had one. Well, if Stubbins had one.

“Give it up, Greg,” he said with a fake chortle as if this had been a nice little joke they'd pulled.

Both Yarders looked taken aback and John congratulated himself on a most well executed entrance that would make Sherlock proud. John had to admit he hadn't had this much fun in a long while.

“Hello, Sally,” he added with a little wave.

“Who do you think you are, talking to us like that? Just because it was our duty to protect you doesn't mean we're mates, you wanker. If it was up to me, I would have left you to the Fury.”

John knew the sergeant was the rules abiding sort of copper, but faced with a man who'd killed a colleague and gotten away with it, he had to wonder if maybe she was sincere.

“Well, let’s hope you never find the real Stubbins in that case, or that you're real good at disposing of bodies,” he said with a wink, wondering if she'd get it this time.

Sally blinked and opened her mouth a couple of times. Looked from Greg to him, then stepped closer and  _ really _ looked at him.

“No. Can't be…”

“‘fraid so. Sorry?”

“John,” Greg growled in warning and John pinched him in the side so he'd stay silent.

“John Watson? But how? Why? I talked to Stubbins-”

“Me,” John asserted and he could see doubt starting to worm it's way into her mind. “You didn't recognize me in my simple journalist disguise so I can't blame you for not seeing through this elaborate one. Don't worry, no one did.”

Frustrated, she rounded on Greg.

“What are you playing at? You could get suspended again for-”

“He didn't know,” John cut in. “He called it in on my tip-off but I played Stubbins all along. I knew that would draw in Jenny.”

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that could have been?” she screeched. “I swear you're nothing but trouble, Doctor Watson.”

John shrugged good naturedly. She couldn't do much against him except maybe arrest him for impersonating someone else. She was pulling on her locks as she thought and Greg used her distraction to shoot him a look which translated loud and clear to “What the hell?” and which he answered with an eyeroll and a nod towards Sally: “Don't worry. You'll see.” Greg huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. John knew he hated being left out but he had no choice, the plan had completely derailed with Stubbins taking off.

“I don't want to make trouble, and I don't want to get in trouble because of your shenanigans for that matter. I was just coming here to release Stubbins anyway, so I suppose you can go, even if you aren't really him,” she muttered. “But don't you ever dare do something like this again or I will haul your ass in prison. Got it?” 

John nodded emphatically, trying to keep the smugness at a minimum. He made for the door, pulling Greg in tow, but the Sergeant stopped them.

“Not you, Greg. You were involved in the arrest of the Fury and that means paperwork.”

Greg groaned, but John knew he had to give her that little victory for letting them off the hook so easily, so he waved him goodbye and hurried out into the corridor before she changed her mind or remembered he was actually overdue some paperwork as well.

John ran straight into Old-man-Sherlock, and together, they exited the Yard, barely keeping themselves together under an onslaught of post-case giggles. It was liberating. It was like old times. 

When they finally made it into 221B, that feeling only grew stronger. There was Sherlock, leaning against the wall in the entrance as he pulled his fake beard off, mirth still swimming in his eyes at the way their plan had gone so pear shaped at the end, and how John had somehow pulled it off despite it all when even the great Sherlock Holmes hadn't had a clue what to do.

“You were fantastic, John,” Sherlock said and it sounded like he really meant it for once, which made John break into a new fit of giggles.

“I learned from the best,” he quipped, brushing it off modestly, and suddenly… suddenly, Sherlock wasn't laughing anymore and he was there, too close, so close he could see flecks of the glue for his fake beard still clinging to his skin and John's heart stuttered and he blinked the image away. Only it didn’t… Sherlock was still there, closer even...

“Sherlock?” he asked, his voice breaking.

“John,” Sherlock said with a voice that should not be used outside a bedroom and then his lips were on his, full and hot and demanding.

John was fairly certain his brain had short-circuited for a moment, unable to accept what was happening, so the reboot was rather violent and John pushed Sherlock away with all his might, leaving him to stare wide eyed and panting at his friend.

“What the hell, Sherlock? What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

If Sherlock had the nerve to reply with one of his smarmy “I think that’s quite obvious.” then John couldn’t be held accountable for his actions. But he didn’t. Sherlock looked hurt, uncertain, hesitant...all manners of emotions that didn’t belong on that face.

“I don’t… I just… I thought…”

Seeing Sherlock rendered almost speechless for the second time that day, John suddenly understood what had been bothering the man so much earlier, what Greg knew, and what both of them had been so out of sorts over lately. Jealousy, as he’d suspected, then dismissed out of hand because it was so absurd. But somehow, Sherlock had developed feelings for him? No, it couldn’t be. It sounded so ludicrous, even in the privacy of his own mind. He’s hardly worth the bother. Him? Little, old, broken John Watson? Ha!

He still couldn’t believe it, and yet, he was dating the one, and had just been kissed by the other…

“I can’t,” John managed to croak out, cleared his throat and continued. “I have Greg. You.. This… I can’t…”

He had no words to explain how he was feeling at the moment, how confused and lost, but even if he did, he doubted they’d make it through the tight knot in his throat or his clenched jaw.

Sherlock scoffed.

“He doesn’t deserve you.”

“Oh, really? And you do?” One thing to be said for Sherlock: he always managed to get a rise out of him and the anger released all the feelings and resentment he'd suppressed. “Greg wasn't the one who left me behind. Greg wasn't the one who discarded me like some old piece of junk. Greg would never do that to me. Never. He was there for me when… when I needed someone.”

“But he doesn’t make your heart beat like it is now, either,” Sherlock said confidently as he approached and placed the palm of his hand on his heart, his long fingers clinging to the cloth of his shirt. John shrugged it off and stepped away from him, but he was blushing. He could feel the heat of it spread up his neck and burn his cheeks, because he knew there was some truth to that. No one ever made him feel alive quite like Sherlock Holmes.

“No, maybe not,” John admitted in a quiet voice. “But he makes me happy.”

“I can do that too,” Sherlock argued, a bit petulantly. “You know I can.”

John shook his head, annoyed now by his insistence. Why were they even arguing about this? He was with Greg. He loved Greg. Why did Sherlock even think he could just waltz in and take his place? Was his friend so used to him just going along with everything he said that he thought he would only have to snap his fingers and John would be his?

“Let me reformulate that for you Sherlock: Greg will never make me half as miserable as you did.”

Harsh, but true. Sherlock flinched, but John didn’t wait for him to argue his case any longer. He knew that if anyone could convince him the sky was yellow, it was Sherlock. So, yes, he fled, in a manner of speaking, by stomping all the way up to his… their… flat, where he slammed the door behind him, making his feelings known that he’d rather Sherlock  _ not _ follow him up, but knowing all the while he probably had nowhere else to go. John thought about just going off to bed and sleep off all this madness, but he caught his reflection in the mirror hanging in the entrance and decided he had had quite enough of being Stubbins for a lifetime, so he made his way to the bathroom instead.

 

ooo

 

When he came out, both Sherlock and Greg were there, making him wonder just how long he'd indulged in his hot bath. The pair were scowling at each other again. No surprise there. John was happy to see Greg had come over however, especially because he wanted to know how it had gone at the Yard after they'd left. He wasn't so keen on staying in the same room as Sherlock though, even less so with Greg there. John couldn't even look at his former flatmate without images of the kiss flashing through his mind and a blush creeping up his face again, let alone talk to him.

The silence between them made every little noise in the room sound like the ticking of a bomb taking them closer to an unavoidable explosion. John couldn't bear it a second later. He’d hoped everything could be like it was before, but obviously, he had been wrong.

“Dinner?” he asked Greg with his back turned to Sherlock.

Childish, he had to admit, but he was fresh out of options right now. 

“Out,” John specified.

Greg glanced between him and Sherlock, smiled and nodded, only to stop him in the entrance. John tensed because Sherlock might not be within earshot but he might as well be because he could read lips.

“I don’t think fleeing is the solution, John. What’s going on? Did something happen with…” Greg trailed off with a meaningful glance back at Sherlock.

John hesitated, biting his lip, but he couldn’t lie to Greg. That was not how their relationship worked, and he certainly wasn’t going to ruin it because of something Sherlock did. John felt the blood drain out of his face as he was hit with the suspicion that maybe that was exactly what Sherlock had counted on happening. He was a master at manipulating people if he put his mind to it. How many times had John fallen for it in the past… Was this just another game to him.

“John?” Greg prodded, his brow furrowed.

“He kissed me,” John hissed.

Greg never looked more like a volcano than he did at that revelation, but he quieted just as soon, emitting nothing more than a soft grumble.

“I expected something like this to happen sooner or later,” Greg confessed, then amended when he saw John’s outrage about to burst forth. “Not  _ that _ necessarily. But I thought the idiot would say something, tell you about… his feelings, but I suppose that was a bit foolish of me.”

“You could have warned me,” John mumbled.

“I was hoping I was wrong,” Greg said with a shrug. “Or that you'd notice, eventually. Besides, I wasn’t going to push you in his arms. I’m not that selfless.”

They shifted as one to look at the forlorn figure sitting so still in his armchair he might as well have been made of stone. John was so angry at him, yet not exactly sure why. He probably could have excused the kiss itself as a spur of the moment impulse done on a post-case high, but not his haughty attitude after that.

“I mean, he’s Sherlock,” Greg sighed. “I know how special he is to you.”

John swallowed convulsively, feeling like a block of lead had elected residence in his throat. He couldn’t deny that, Sherlock would always have a special place in his heart, but that didn’t mean he wanted to date the insufferable git. So what was Greg saying exactly? Did he have to choose between them? Did choosing one mean losing the other?

  
  



	28. Star Crossed Lovers

John’s dilemma was clear to see and Greg knew he was the one pushing him to deal with the issue, but it was no use fleeing and Greg couldn’t wait, pretending everything was fine with that Damocles sword hanging over his head. It’s not that he wanted John to choose him over Sherlock, because that would never work, but they had to work out the tension between them before it exploded in all their faces.

So, with a firm hand at the small of his back and whispering reassuring words in his ear, Greg led John back to his armchair and pushed him into his seat, facing Sherlock. Of course, that meant he had to fetch one of the kitchen chairs for himself and drag it back to sit between the two men. Ignoring how awkward this was turning out to be, Greg cleared his throat.

“We need to talk.”

Neither John nor Sherlock looked like they wanted to, each one blanketed in their own sullen silence. Greg felt very much like a referee at a game where both teams were reluctant to play, neither willing to call the coin toss, let alone kickoff the ball, so it was up to him to get things moving. Again. He wondered, not for the first time, if he should just let Sherlock continue digging the grave to his friendship with John, but knew it would make John just as miserable in the end and that’s the last thing Greg wanted to happen, because he’d seen miserable-John and it was heartbreaking.

Well… second to last thing he didn't want to see happen, but it looked like John’s first instinct wasn’t to dump him for Sherlock as he'd feared. Pretty, smart, younger, crazy Sherlock. Greg knew he could not compete against him, but it appeared John really liked him, good old dependable Greg. Maybe even loved him? Greg did, not that he’d told John. It was never the right time, and then he got kidnapped and Sherlock reappeared and he had to question everything again, not knowing where he stood between the inseparable pair. He wondered who was the most star-crossed lovers in this scenario: him and John, or John and Sherlock?

Which was exactly why they needed to talk and sort this mess out. Nobody wanted a Shakespearean ending, but that was where they were headed with these two knuckleheads.

“Alright,” he warned when no one spoke up. “If that’s the way you want to do it, but don’t expect me to be anything but blunt. First of all, Sherlock, I’m really holding myself back not punching your teeth in for kissing John. That was not on, mate, and you bloody well know it.”

Sherlock at least has the grace to blush. It was surprising, actually. In all the years he’s known him, longer than John in fact, Greg has never seen him blush or display such a genuine emotion so openly. This was definitely John’s doing. Of course, the colour rising to his cheeks suited him, the bloody wanker, but he didn’t try to defend his actions and remained as mute as ever so Greg continued.

“John is mighty pissed about it too, mind you, but we all know that won’t last. He’s too forgiving with you. Hell, he couldn’t even stay mad at you more than a day after you pretended being dead for  _ years. _ ”

Greg spied both men trying their best to hide a smile while avoiding eye contact and he sighed. This just proved he was doing the right thing.

“But please, for all our sakes, just talk it out, so we can get past this.”

Sherlock studied him with his cold assessing gaze, then John, and they both waited him out. The ball was in his court and he could either start playing or forfeit the game.

“You two really care about each other,” he said and they exchanged a glance before nodding in unison. 

Greg would never confess to the relief that washed through him at that moment.

“I thought… you'd wait for me,” Sherlock added, not meeting their eyes now and seemingly very interested in the hem of his dressing gown.

“Wait for you?” John snorted. “I thought you were  _ dead,  _ Sherlock. What was there to wait for?”

“Well,” Greg corrected for the sake of honesty. “You sort of were, though. You never dated, you hardly even went out, and this place was a bloody museum of Sherlock weirdness until not so long ago.”

Sherlock’s smug look resurfaced.

“It was the saddest thing I ever saw,” he continued and both men winced. “John and me, it just happened. I don't think it's something either of us could have predicted, much less imagined… I just wanted to help him.”

John reached over to squeeze his hand and he suddenly felt self-conscious about how he'd just poured his heart out.

“And now you love him,” Sherlock concluded and Greg nodded.

“You do?” John asked, voice rising.

“Why do you sound so surprised?” Greg mock scolded.

“Well, we haven't… dated that long and, you know, haven't even, you know… and I'm just me. I'm not much. I just don't understand.”

Greg chuckled because he truly looked puzzled by the idea, the idiot.

“I almost lost you. I would have done anything to get you back. It sort of puts your feelings in perspective.”

Greg stopped as he realized something.

“Oh! That's what happened with you too, isn't it?” he asked Sherlock. “When you were up on the roof? That's why you did it, that's why you played dead! You love him too. You really do.”

Sherlock squirmed in his armchair, eyes still averted.

“I always said you were the less idiotic of the detectives of Scotland yard.”

Greg hummed. That was almost a compliment. But now he at least knew Sherlock wasn't faking it just to get his blogger back. His feelings were genuine and unwavering if he'd been hanging onto them for the past two years. So… He glanced at John who looked like he might need a shock blanket. Greg would have offered him something strong to drink if he hadn't abused of the stuff in the past. All he could offer at the moment was to squeeze his hand in understanding. He'd be rooting for those two if he wasn't stuck in the middle. He didn't want to imagine what was going on in John's mind.

“The classic love triangle,” Sherlock commented mildly. “You realize these usually end up in murder, of course.”

Somehow that made them laugh. They really were a dysfunctional bunch.

“I don't know what to do,” John finally confessed. “I really don't think I deserve either of you. It's still early, but yeah, I do think I love you Greg, but…” he gazed at Sherlock. “I've always loved Sherlock, even when he's being a complete tosser. Maybe not in the same way… God, I feel selfish just for thinking it. It's not… normal, I know…”

“Normal,” Sherlock scoffed. “I thought you of all people were above that, John. There is a simple solution to this little conundrum that doesn’t involve me commiting the perfect murder however.”

Greg scowled. Had Sherlock just threatened to get rid of him?

“What are you saying, Sherlock?” he asked because the only way he could think of to solve a love triangle without getting rid of one of the parties meant sharing. Surely he wasn’t implying that? It was… not normal, but that was exactly how Sherlock thrived. Not normal, not boring. It might actually be the perfect sort of relationship for someone like him. “Are you suggesting we… time-share John?”

John made a strangled sound from his seat and Greg glanced at him to make sure he was okay, but apart from turning beet red and wide-eyed… then John opened his mouth but no sound came out and Sherlock spoke up instead.

“Of course not. I’m suggesting John is man enough to take the both of us on at the same time.”

This time, Greg felt a blush creeping up his face. He knew Sherlock enough to know he didn’t mean it the way it sounded, but still… 

“Phrasing, Sherlock,” he grunted.

“You know what I mean,” Sherlock replied with his smarmy voice that always made his fist itch with expectation.

He wasn’t sure how to feel about such a proposition. On the one hand, it would suit both Sherlock and John as the first wouldn’t be left out while the latter wouldn’t have to choose, but on the other, Greg had experienced “sharing” of a sort with his cheating wife and he hadn’t liked it one bit. Not that the situation was so similar, since his wife had actually been giving herself to anyone but him and there was no love involved by the end of it, but the concept still left a foul taste in his mouth. Could he deal with John and Sherlock flirting? Going on a date? Having sex? Did Sherlock even do any of those? Well, apparently he could kiss, so they weren't out of the question either…

Sherlock huffed. Apparently, they were too slow thinking about his solution, but had he honestly expected them to happily go along with his scheme? Although, John hadn’t outright refused, and neither had he, so what did that say about them?

“I need to think about it,” John said simply. “And we need to talk about it,” he added, pulling him out of his chair by their linked hand as he got up. “I still want that dinner.”

They were quiet as they walked to a Chinese just down the street. Greg thought it best to leave John to his thoughts for now, because he had to be just as befuddled as he was, if not more. Despite what he’d said, John was obviously not that hungry and was poking at his rice absent-mindedly with his chopsticks, a far away look in his eyes. He wished he could read his mind, or at least read him like Sherlock could. He had no idea if he was angry or disappointed, considering Sherlock’s offer or just thinking of the best way to make him ingest a large dose of poison. So he reached across the table to still John's hand and his boyfriend finally looked him in the eye, giving him a wry smile.

“It’s fucked up, right? Sherlock makes it sound like it isn’t, but he’s always been a bit…”

“Weird?”

John chuckled at the understatement.

“I don’t know why I’m even considering it. For that matter, I don’t understand why you’re not storming off in a snit?”

“Err, maybe because I’m not one of your jealous girlfriends?”

John considered him for a moment.

“You’re not jealous?”

“I always knew there would be Sherlock in your life, I just thought he’d be a little more dead,” he answered with a shrug. “Now we have to deal with a live one. I know he’ll be a part of your life,whatever you decide, so it’s just a question of how invasive he’s going to be.”

John laughed outright this time and it made his heart skip a beat.

“You certainly know how to diffuse a situation. Put like that, it doesn’t seem so overwhelming. But how do  _ you  _ feel about… what he said.”

“About sharing you?” Greg replied bluntly. “Not thrilled to be honest. Not at first, anyway. I don’t exactly have fond memories of my ex-wife going at it with other blokes. Not that you’re my wife,” he quickly corrected when John gave him a peculiar look. “Or that you’ll be going at it with Sherlock. I mean, I thought he didn’t do normal, human stuff like that?”

“He seemed to know what he was doing when he shoved his tongue down my throat, but I see what you mean… I can't imagine him dating, not like normal people would. His version of dating would probably involve finding a dead body and running across the rooftops under the moonlight.”

“Sounds about right. So… what will you do?”

“We,” John corrected. “I'm not taking a decision without you. We're already together and I have no intention of losing you over this. If it's making you uncomfortable, even just a bit, then it's not worth considering, but… Correct me if I'm wrong, you didn't object outright, so does that mean you are thinking about it? I don't understand what's in it for you.

“It's the easy way out? I want you to be happy and I don't want to lose you. His offer seems to be the only way to reconcile the two.”

“And you said you weren't selfless,” John said and bit his lip as if he'd bitten into a hot pepper.

“You okay?”

John nodded and looked right at him so Greg noticed his eyes were a lot darker than usual, and that he looked a bit flushed. He'd never heard of someone getting aroused by selflessness before, but he'd be happy to go along with it.

“How about we skip dessert?” he asked with a saucy smile.

They made it past the front door before they started kissing, the landing before they were groping one another and fighting against their layers of clothes, before they finally stumbled inside. Thankfully, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but they tip toed their way across the living room to the upstairs bedroom on the off chance he had gone to bed. Unlikely. Chances were he'd gone to the morgue to steal a corpse to experiment on, or was breaking into Scotland Yard in search of an interesting case… he didn't really care. He had John’s tongue around his own and his hot skin beneath his fingers, and… a Sherlock in John's bed.

  
  
  



	29. Ménage à Trois

“I knew he could be a massive prick, but I never expected him to be such a cockblock,” Greg said next to him, not bothering to keep his voice down, his hands still on his arse.

John hummed in agreement, pressing himself against Greg because he had an itch that would not be getting relief anytime soon thanks to his insufferable flatmate.

“Yeah, there's no way we can fit three of us in there. Should've expected as much. He used that trick to get rid of my most tenacious girlfriends.”

“He expected that to work on me?” Greg asked incredulously. “Does he not know me at all? I'm wounded.”

“Must be desperate, poor bloke.”

Sherlock stopped pretending to be asleep and rolled on his back, piercing them both with his long suffering stare.

“Are you done?” he snapped.

“Uhm, we haven't even started actually,” John replied. “But if you're too busy rolling around in my sheets, I guess we can take this to the downstairs bedroom. I heard rumours it has an enormous bed.”

“Or we could just go to my place,” Greg offered, looking pointedly at Sherlock.

“Fine. Since you two are being so unreasonable,” Sherlock said and dramatically pulled the blanket off before standing. He was still fully dressed thankfully and left in a strop, stomping all the way down. Greg huffed and stepped away, which John understood because despite the show they put up for Sherlock's benefit, seeing his sad attempt to sabotage their lovemaking did work on some level.

“How can he manage to make me feel guilty about this?  _ I'm _ the one dating you.  _ I'm _ your boyfriend. It's no like you two were even together before,” Greg muttered and sat on the bed, then let himself fall back as if drained from all the energy he'd had in spades justinytes prior.

“He's making me feel guilty too, if it's any consolation,” John said and sat next to him, a hand on his thigh because he still craved contact even if his sex drive had been successfully interrupted. “I wish I knew what was going on in that head of his, what he really wants out of this… I mean, you saw him just now. He said… no, he implied he loved me, told me he could make me happy and that he wants a relationship, but you saw his face, right? I'm not imagining things?”

Greg looked confused by what he was trying to get at, but John was loath to tell him outright and influence his opinion just in case he was wrong.

“Well,” Greg started uncertainly, before his voice suddenly became huskier. “If things were reversed and I just saw you and Sherlock stumbling in and ripping your clothes off one another, and kissing… I’d be mad with jealousy, I guess. And… erm… a little turned on to be honest. Just a little.”

John sniggered at Greg's embarrassed look and cuddled closer, lying down next to him and letting his hand drift up higher, hoping that maybe they could rekindle things to their resume their original plan. Greg shuddered under his touch, hopefully in a good way, then cleared his throat before continuing.

“But I wouldn't be as composed as Sherlock was just now. Is that what you meant?”

John nodded. Maybe Sherlock was just very good at hiding how he felt, maybe he didn't feel the same way people in love usually felt, and maybe he didn't even want the same things normal people did… it was all very confusing and after all, even John realized he didn't love Greg and Sherlock in quite the same way. Were they just confusing deep rooted friendship or even brotherly love for romantic love? No. Maybe not. Because as much as he'd disliked the way Sherlock had just snogged him out of the blue, he had to admit the kiss itself had been… good. And you'd have to be blind not to see how attractive Sherlock was… John shook his head. Despite everything, he couldn't quite picture himself tumbling into a bed with Sherlock.

“Sorry. I'm just  _ very _ confused right now.”

Greg hummed, the sound like the rumble of a mountain under his ear as John canoodled even closer with his head on his chest.

“I guess we could make the bed squeak like mad and see what Sherlock's reaction is in the morning. It worked with Mrs Hudson and she's another floor down so there's no way Sherlock can miss it, or misinterpret it.”

“I wish we didn't have to pretend to make the bed squeak,” John grumped but his flatmate had really killed the mood for good this time.

“It won't take a lot of work though,” Greg said and bucked his hips once before letting his weight fall back down with a mighty squeal of the old springs beneath them.

John laughed and tried it too, feeling ridiculous but getting similar results. The next ten minutes were spent in the same childish activity, only interrupted by their efforts not to laugh too much in case they gave the game away. By the end, they were tired out enough to fall asleep peacefully in one another's arms.

 

John almost forgot their plot the next morning as he walked down to the kitchen. It was early enough that Greg was still sleeping and he hadn't wanted to wake him by tossing and turning until it was a reasonable hour, so he went in search of a nice cup of tea downstairs, but finding a grumpy Sherlock lurking in the shadows of the kitchen instead.

“Morning, Sherlock. Slept well?” he asked out of habit, if he could even call it that with a two year gap in between.

“Rubbing it in, are you?”

John blinked owlishly at his friend who was obviously a lot more awake than he was, so it took him a couple of minutes to connect the dots.

“Oh. No. Not at all. Why? Are you jealous? You could have joined in, you know.”

John tried to keep his voice light despite tackling the heart of the problem, then he spied Sherlock's reaction. His initial grumpiness wasn't out of the ordinary for a morning without interesting case in view after all.

“Don't be ridiculous, John. I have no interest whatsoever in Lestrade, nor any of his body parts.”

John was relieved at that bit of information. Two cocks in one bed were more than enough for him, thank you very much.

“So if it was just me?” John needled, needing to get to the bottom of this, to know what Sherlock really wanted.

“If it's what you wanted,” Sherlock said, brushing it off before fiddling with his microscope.

“No,” John said firmly, stilling Sherlock's hand with his own. “I need to know what you want from me, what you expect if you really want a relationship or whatever. What you say and what you do… you're confusing me, so I need you to spell it out for me.”

Despite the gloom, John was astonished to see a light blush dust his cheekbones, so it was probably more out of embarrassment than annoyance that Sherlock wasn't meeting his eyes, staring mutinously at his microscope and the stained kitchen table instead.

“Sherlock?” he asked more softly. “You know you can tell me anything.”

Sherlock swiveled on his chair towards him, keeping his head down and a tight grasp on his hand.

“I don't want to lose you,” Sherlock all but mumbled. “I don't want you to leave.”

“I'm not going to.”

“You will. If you and Lestrade stay together long enough, you'll get married and go live in a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence, and adopt a poodle or whatever.”

John couldn't help a laugh from escaping at the ridiculous mental image.

“We really wouldn't.”

“You say that now, but that's how it always goes.”

“Wait, is that why….” John narrowed his eyes at his friend. “You don't actually want a relationship with me. You don't actually want me, you just want me around.”

The blush returned with a vengeance, but Sherlock never got embarrassed by getting called out on one of his lies so why was he?

“I do. Want you, that is. I have these… urges, sometimes, around you. Like when I kissed you. That was… good. I enjoyed it. I don't usually, but that was good. It made me think I might… want more. One day. Maybe.”

His eyes must have gone ridiculously wide when he realized why Sherlock was being so contradictory lately.

“You mean… that nickname…”

John had thought Moriarty had just been poking fun at Sherlock’s “married to his work” excuse. Okay, the self-named sociopath would rather ignore his “transport” most of the time, and he didn't get along with anyone long enough to contemplate something as demanding as a relationship, but that still left a wide array of options, and there had to have been teenage experimentation, there had even been the outrageous flirting with The Woman… Sherlock wasn't made of stone, however much he would like to. Surely he couldn't really be a virgin? Not at his age and looking like that… 

Sherlock huffed.

“I might never want to. It's like sleep or food, I guess.”

“I’ve been told I was dishy before, but not quite so literally,” John quipped because the whole thing was just so ridiculous. “But okay, I understand better where you're coming from now. So, if I promise I'm not leaving, you're okay with me and Greg? You won't pull off a stunt like last night again? Because we would really like to get a leg over one of these days.”

“What was all that noise for last night then?” Sherlock asked with a frown.

“Payback?”

Sherlock snorted and suddenly pulled on his hand he had kept a grip on, yanking him forward until they were inches apart.

“It's moment like these that you give me these urges. It's your fault, really, if you think about it.”

John's breathing hitched. Those eyes, that voice… God, they should be outlawed. His own body had to be giving away how he was feeling right now because Sherlock smirked and pulled him down to press their lips together in a chaste kiss that made his heart skip several beats as if it had slipped on a sleet covered pavement. It only lasted a few seconds before Sherlock let him go and resumed fiddling with his microscope, but not before he called out over his shoulder.

“You can stop hiding now, Lestrade!”

John whirled around to find a sheepish Greg entering the kitchen. He didn't look angry or anything so John relaxed just in time to be greeted by a warm all-enveloping hug and a peck on the lips.

“I was right. It is kind of hot,” he murmured in his ear before raising his voice. “So the wanker just wants to snog you now and then, eh? I'm okay with that.”

John felt Sherlock still beside him although he couldn't see him, his eyes too busy scanning Greg's face for any sign of doubt.

“You're serious,” John concluded.

“Yeah. I don't think I could have dealt with you two going at it like rabbits, but if all he wants is teenage romance when he actually remembers he's human…” Greg shrugged. “I'm okay with it if you are.”

John glanced between Greg and Sherlock, still not quite believing this was happening to him.

“Alright. I think this can work out. But anyone one of us can call it off whenever they want, okay?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said while Greg just nodded.

The first was still ensconced in his microscope while the latter began scouring the cupboards in search of food. His boyfriends.

“Still a bit weird,” John muttered as he left for the bathroom, in need of some time alone more than the shower itself.

 

When he returned, there was tea and toast ready for him, but he was surprised to see that even Sherlock was having breakfast while he and Greg argued about a case. An old one by the sound of it. He watched them as he ate quietly. He forgot sometimes that those two had known each other a deal longer than he had, and they actually got along well, or as well as Sherlock got on with anyone. At least they were comfortable with one another, and with him. Greg could actually move in with them and it wouldn't be such a fuss, on the condition that they changed his bed upstairs. Not now, of course. He shouldn't get ahead of himself. There was still a chance everything would fall apart at the first spot of trouble, but he was hopeful.

Greg's phone rang, pulling him out of his musings and by the now familiar frown on his face, he was being called in on a scene.

“Anything interesting?” Sherlock asked with hopeful eyes.

“Not sure. I'll call you when I know more.”

“When you're stuck you mean.”

“ _ If _ I'm stuck,” Greg groused then ignored Sherlock, turned towards him and swooped down to kiss him goodbye.

Then he was off, his hurried footsteps disappearing down the stairs until the front door slammed shut.

“At least you chose someone useful,” Sherlock remarked and John smiled because that was as much approval as he was going to get out of him. It was almost a shining endorsement. He couldn't wait to tell Greg.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your support! I can't quite believe I finally managed to wrap this one up but I'm glad it's done! If you find the ending a bit abrupt, some of you may know that's the way I roll since I don't really do fluff, but there will be a companion piece someday written from Sally's POV as she tries to figure out what's going on at Baker Street :D
> 
> PS: I'm a tiny bit disappointed no one noticed all the chapter titles are composed of THREE words. Ah, well...


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